THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


»        *    at 
>*V  j»-y  v* 


LYRA   ELEGANTIARUM 

A  COLLECTION  OF  SOME   OF  THE   BEST 
SPECIMENS 


VERS   DE  SOCIETE  AND  VERS   D'OCCASION 

IN   THE  ENGLISH   LANGUAGE 
BY    DECEASED  AUTHORS 


EDITED    BY 

FREDERICK    LOCKER 

"  Jay  tevlement  faict  icy  un  ai#as  drjlfurs,  ffy  nyantfovrny  du 
mien  yue  U  filet  it  let  lier."— MICHSL  DK  MONTAIGN. 

NEW    YORK 
WHITE,    STOKES,   &    ALLEN 

1884 


STACK  ANNEX 


IH5 


"  THESE  pieces  commonly  go  under  the  title  of  poetical 
amusements;  but  these  amusements  have  sometimes  gained 
as  much  reputation  to  their  authors,  as  works  of  a  more 
serious  nature. 

"  It  is  surprising  how  much  the  mind  is  entertained  and 
enlivened  by  these  little  poetical  compositions,  as  they  turn 
upon  subjects  of  gallantry,  satire,  tenderness,  politeness,  and 
everything,  in  short,  that  concerns  life,  and  the  affairs  of  the 

•world." 

PLINY  TO  Tuscus. 


DEDICATION. 

TO  THE  VERY  REVEREND  THE  DEAN  OF  ST.  PAUL'S. 

DEAR  MR.  DEAN: 

You  have  given  me  great  pleasure  in  allowing  me  to 
dedicate  this  little  work  to  yourself.  I  hesitated  to  ask  the 
favor,  because  the  book  might  seem  to  be  of  too  trifling 
a  character,  to  be  connected  with  so  venerable  a  name ; 
but  then  I  remembered  your  universal  appreciation  of  every 
branch  of  our  literature,  and  also  the  kindly  interest  which 
you  took  in  the  scheme  when  I  first  mentioned  it  to  you. 

I  trust  that  the  principle  of  my  selection  will  meet  your 
approval.  I  feel  sure  you  will  make  allowance  for  many 
shortcomings,  and  will  charitably  believe  that  the  Editor 
tried  to  do  his  best. 

I  am, 

Dear  Mr.  Dean, 
Yours  very  faithfully, 

FREDERICK  LOCKER. 


PREFACE 


So  many  collections  of  favorite  poetical  pieces 
have  appeared  of  late  years,  appealing  to  nearly 
every  variety  of  taste,  that  some  apology  may  seem 
due  to  the  public  for  adding  another  volume  to  the 
number  already  in  existence. 

But  although  there  have  been  sentimental,  hu- 
morous, lyrical,  descriptive,  and  devotional  col- 
lections, there  is  another  kind  of  poetry  which  was 
more  in  vogue  in  the  reign  of  Queen  Anne,  and 
indeed  in  Ante-Reform-Bill  times,  than  it  is  at  the 
present  day ;  a  species  of  poetry  which,  in  its  more 
restricted  form,  bears  somewhat  the  same  relation 
to  the  poetry  of  lofty  imagination  and  deep  feeling, 
that  the  Dresden  China  Shepherds  and  Shepherd- 
esses of  the  last  century  do  to  the  sculpture  of 
Donatello  and  Michael  Angelo  ;  namely,  smoothly 
written  vers  de  socitte,  where  a  boudoir  decorum  is, 
or  ought  always  to  be,  preserved  ;  where  senti- 
ment never  surges  into  passion,  and  where  humor 
never  overflows  into  boisterous  merriment.  The 
Editor  is  not  aware  that  a  collection  of  this  peculiar 
species  of  exquisitely  rounded  and  polished  verse, 


vi  PREFACE. 

which,  for  want  of  a  better  title,  he  has  called 
Lyra  Elegantiarum,  has  ever  yet  been  offered  to 
the  public. 

Hitherto  this  kind  of  poetry  has  remained  diffi- 
cult of  access  to  the  majority  of  ordinary  readers, 
because  its  most  finished  specimens  have  often  lain 
scattered  among  masses  of  verse,  more  ambitious 
in  aim,  but  frequently  far  less  worthy  of  preserva- 
tion. It  seems  only  reasonable,  then,  that  those 
people  who  delight  in  this  lighter  kind  of  verse 
should  be  enabled  to  study  their  favorite  pieces  in 
a  single  volume. 

In  commencing  his  task  the  Editor's  first  endea- 
vor was  to  frame  a  correct  definition  of  vers  de 
societe  and  vers  d '0Kasi0n,\viih  sufficient  clearness  to 
guide  him  in  making  his  selection,  and  he  has  been 
desirous  of  giving  them  their  broadest  signification. 
His  second  endeavor  was  to  choose  those  pieces 
which  most  completely  reached  this  ideal  standard. 
But  it  will  be  easily  understood  that  no  exact  line 
of  demarcation  can  in  all  cases  be  maintained,  and 
that  such  verse  frequently  approximates  closely  to 
other  kindred  species  of  poetry,  such  as  the  song, 
the  parody,  the  epigram,  and  even  the  riddle. 

Lest  any  reader  who  may  not  be  familiar  with 
this  description  of  poetry  should  be  misled  by  the 
adoption  of  the  French  title,  which  the  absence  of 
any  precise  English  equivalent  renders  necessary, 
it  may  be  as  well  to  observe,  that  vers  de  societe 
need  by  no  means  be  confined  to  topics  of  artificial 


PREFACE.  vii 

life.  Subjects  of  the  most  exalted,  and  of  the 
most  trivial  character,  may  be  treated  with  equal 
success,  provided  the  manner  of  their  treatment  is 
in  accordance  with  the  following  characteristics, 
which  the  Editor  ventures  to  submit  as  expressive 
of  his  own  ideas  on  this  subject.  In  his  judgment 
genuine  vers  de  societe  and  vers  d*  occasion  should  be 
short,  elegant,  refined,  and  fanciful,  not  seldom 
distinguished  by  chastened  sentiment,  and  often 
playful.  The  tone  should  not  be  pitched  high ;  it 
should  be  idiomatic,  and  rather  in  the  conversa- 
tional key ;  the  rhythm  should  be  crisp  and  spark- 
ling, and  the  rhyme  frequent  and  never  forced, 
while  the  entire  poem  should  be  marked  by  taste- 
ful moderation,  high  finish,  and  completeness ;  for, 
however  trival  the  subject-matter  may  be,  indeed 
rather  in  proportion  to  its  triviality,  subordination 
to  the  rules  of  composition  and  perfection  of  ex- 
ecution should  be  strictly  enforced.  The  defini- 
tion may  be  further  illustrated  by  a  few  examples 
of  pieces  which,  from  the  absence  of  some  of  the 
foregoing  qualities,  or  from  the  excess  of  others, 
cannot  be  properly  classed  as  vers  de  societe,  though 
they  may  bear  a  certain  generic  resemblance  to 
that  species  of  poetry.  The  ballad  of  "John 
Gilpin,"  for  instance  is  too  broadly  and  simply 
humorous  ;  Swift's  "  Lines  on  the  Death  of  Marl- 
borough,"  and  Byron's  "  Windsor  Poetics,"  are  too 
savage  and  truculent ;  Cowper's  "  My  Mary  "  is 
far  too  pathetic  ;  Herrick's  lyrics  to  "  Blossoms  " 


viii  PREFACE. 

and  "  Daffodils  "  are  too  elevated  ;  "  Sally  in  our 
Alley  "  is  too  homely,  and  too  entirely  simple  and 
natural ;  while  the  "  Rape  of  the  Lock,"  which 
would  otherwise  be  one  of  the  finest  specimens  of 
vers  de  societe  in  any  language,  must  be  excluded  on 
account  of  its  length,  which  renders  it  much  too 
important. 

Every  piece  which  has  been  selected  for  this 
volume  cannot  be  expected  to  exhibit  all  the  char- 
acteristics above  enumerated,  but  the  two  quali- 
ties of  brevity  and  buoyancy  are  absolutely  essen- 
tial. The  poem  may  be  tinctured  with  a  well-bred 
philosophy,  it  may  be  gay  and  gallant,  it  may  be 
playfully  malicious  or  tenderly  ironical,  it  may  dis- 
play lively  banter,  and  it  may  be  sarcastically  face- 
tious ;  it  may  even,  considering  it  merely  as  a  work 
of  art,  be  pagan  in  its  philosophy,  or  trifling  in  its 
tone^  but  it  must  never  be  ponderous  or  common- 
place. 

Having  thus  fixed  upon  a  definition,  the  Editor 
proceeded  to  put  it  to  a  practical  use,  by  submit- 
ting it  as  a  touchstone  to  the  various  pieces  which 
came  under  his  notice.  In  the  first  place  it  is 
scarcely  necessary  to  say  that  all  poetry  of  a  strictly 
religious  character,  on  account  of  the  singleness 
and  earnestness  of  its  tone,  is  inadmissible  in  a 
collection  where  jest  and  earnest  are  inextricably 
intermingled.  All  pieces  of  quasi  fashionable  jingle 
have  been  excluded,  because  they  are  usually  pre- 
tentious and  vulgar.  Some  of  our  best  writers  of 


PREFA  CE.  ix 

vers  de  sorietf:  are  not  merely  tinged  with  coarseness, 
they  seem  to  revel  in  it,  and  often  show  much  ra- 
ciness  in  their  revelry,  but  they  are  hardly  ever 
vulgar.  Vulgarity  appears  to  be  a  rock  on  which 
so  many  would-be  writers  of  this  species  of  verse 
have  suffered,  and  will  continue  to  suffer,  ship- 
wreck. 

Fables,  prologues,  rhymed  anecdotes,  and  pieces 
of  purely  ephemeral  interest,  such  as  satirical  or  po- 
litical squibs,  have  been  generally  avoided,  as  well 
as  those  specimens  which  expand  into  real  song  or 
crystallize  into  mere  epigram,  though  in  these 
cases,  as  already  observed,  the  border  line  is  often 
extremely  difficult  of  definition.  Riddles,  para- 
doxes, and  punning  couplets  are  for  the  most  part 
omitted ;  not  as  some  readers  may  suppose,  be- 
cause they  are  contemptible,  for  nothing  is  con- 
temptible that  is  really  good  of  its  kind ;  but  be- 
cause they  do  not,  strictly  speaking,  come  within 
the  scope  of  this  work.  The  few  which  are  insert- 
ed possesses  a  breadth  of  feeling,  or  a  delicacy  of 
treatment,  which  elevate  them  beyond  the  range 
of  mere  epigram,  riddle,  and  parody. 

Some  epitaphs  have  been  admitted,  their  epi- 
grammatic character  rendering  them  more  elegant 
and  ingenious  than  solemn  or  affecting ;  and  a  few 
pieces  of  gracefully  turned  nonsense  will  be  found 
towards  the  end  of  the  volume,  of  which  "  The 
Broken  Dish  "  may  be  cited  as  a  fair  specimen. 
Mr.  Hood  was  very  happy  in  this  kind  of  compo- 


x  PREFACE. 

sition,  where  a  conceit  is  built  up  on  some  pointed 
absurdity. 

The  chief  merit  of  vers  de  societe  is,  that  it  should 
seem  to  be  entirely  spontaneous  ;  when  the  reader 
says  to  himself,  "  I  could  have  written  that,  and 
easily,  too,"  he  pays  the  poet  the  highest  possible 
compliment.  At  the  same  time  it  is  right  to  ob- 
serve, that  this  absence  of  effort,  as  recognized  in 
most  works  of  real  excellence,  is  only  apparent ; 
the  writing  of  vers  de  societe  is  a  difficult  accom- 
plishment, and  no  one  has  fully  succeeded  in  it 
without  possessing  a  certain  gift  of  irony,  which  is 
not  only  a  much  rarer  quality  than  humor,  or  even 
wit,  but  is  altogether  less  commonly  met  with  than 
is  sometimes  imagined.  At  the  same  time  this 
description  of  poetry  seems  so  easy  to  write  that  a 
long  catalogue  of  authors,  both  famous  and  ob- 
scure, have  attempted  it,  but  in  the  great  majority 
of  cases  with  very  indifferent  success.  This  fre- 
quent liability  to  failure  will  excite  less  surprise  if 
it  be  borne  in  mind  that  the  possession  of  the  true 
poetic  faculty  is  not  sufficient  of  itself  to  guarantee 
capacity  for  this  inferior  branch  of  the  art  of  ver- 
sification. The  writer  of  vers  de  societe,  in  order  to 
be  genuinely  successful,  must  not  only  be  more  or 
less  of  a  poet,  but  he  must  also  be  a  man  of  the 
world,  in  the  most  liberal  sense  of  the  expression  ; 
he  must  have  mixed  throughout  his  life  with  the 
most  refined  and  cultivated  members  of  his  species, 
not  merely  as  an  idle  bystander,  but  as  a  busy  actor 


PREFACE.  xi 

in  the  throng.  A  professed  poet,  however  exalted 
his  faculty,  will  seldom  write  the  best  vers  de  sodete, 
just  because  writing  is  the  business  of  his  life  ;  for 
it  appears  to  be  an  essential  characteristic  of  these 
brilliant  trifles,  that  they  should  be  thrown  off  in 
the  leisure  moments  of  men  whose  lives  are  de- 
voted to  graver  pursuits.  Swift  was  an  ardent  po- 
litician ;  Prior  a  zealous  ambassador ;  Suckling, 
Praed,  and  Landor  were  essentially  men  of  action ; 
even  Cowper  was  no  recluse,  but  a  man  of  the 
world,  forced  by  mental  suffering  into  a  state  of 
modified  seclusion.  Indeed,  it  may  be  affirmed 
of  most  of  the  authors  quoted  in  this  volume — and 
it  is  curious  to  see  what  a  large  proportion  of  them 
are  men  of  a  certain  social  position — that  they 
submitted  their  intellects  to  the  monotonous  grind- 
stone of  worldly  business,  and  that  their  poetical 
compositions  were  like  the  sparks  which  fly  off  and 
prove  the  generous  quality  of  the  metal  thus  ap- 
plied ;  and  it  must  be  remembered,  to  pursue  the 
simile,  that  but  for  the  dull  grindstone,  however 
finely  tempered  the  metal  might  be,  there  would 
be  no  sparks  at  all ;  in  other  words,  the  writer  of 
vers  de  sodet'e  needs  perpetual  contact  with  the 
world. 

The  Editor  trusts  that  he  has  gathered  together 
nearly  all  the  vers  de  soticte  of  real  merit  in  the 
English  language,  at  the  same  time  he  almost 
hopes  that  the  cultivated  reader  will  find  hardly 
anything  altogether  unknown  to  him.  The  Editor 


xii  PREFACE. 

is  of  opinion  that  verse  of  real  excellence  and 
buoyancy  is  seldom  long  lost  sight  of;  in  other 
words,  that  an  unknown  piece  of  vers  de  sodete 
probably  does  not  deserve  to  become  better  known. 
The  contents  of  the  volume  have  been  selected 
and  winnowed  from  an  enormous  mass  of  inferior 
verse  of  the  same  kind,  the  great  bulk  of  which 
did  not  appear  of  sufficient  merit  to  deserve  in- 
sertion. 

Many  pieces,  however,  have  been  pondered  over, 
and  at  last  discarded  with  regret.  Several  indeed 
have  been  found,  whose  rejection  was  especially 
tantalizing,  because,  though  otherwise  perfect  spe- 
cimens, their  aim  and  execution  was  just  above  the 
range  of  vers  de  sodete.  Thus,  "  The  Milkmaid's 
Song,"  commencing 

"  Come  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love," 

appears  to  be  too  highly  poetical  for  admission 
into  this  collection,  while  the  less  beautiful,  but 
almost  as  charming,  "  Reply,"  has  been  admitted, 
because  it  is  depressed  to  the  requisite  level  by 
the  tinge  of  worldly  satire  which  runs  through  it. 
Something  of  the  same  kind  may  be  said  of  Wal- 
ler's "  Lines  to  a  Rose,"  and  his  "  Lines  to  a 
Girdle,"  and  on  this  account  only  the  last  will  be 
found  here. 

Isaac  D'Israeli,  in  his  Miscellanies,  has  some 
interesting  remarks  on  vers  de  sodete,  "  The  pas- 
sions of  the  poet,"  he  says,  "  may  form  the  subjects 


PREFACE.  xiii 

of  his  verse.  It  is  in  his  writings  he  delineates 
himself ;  he  reflects  his  tastes,  his  desires,  his  hu- 
mors, his  amours,  and  even  his  defects.  In  other 
poems  the  poet  disappears  under  the  feigned  char- 
acter he  assumes ;  here  alone  he  speaks,  here  he 
acts.  He  makes  a  confidant  of  the  reader,  inte- 
rests him  in  his  hopes,  and  his  sorrows.  We  ad- 
mire the  poet,  and  conclude  with  esteeming  the 
man.  In  these  effusions  the  lover  may  not  un- 
successfully urge  his  complaints.  They  may  form 
a  compliment  for  a  patron  or  a  congratulation  for 
an  artist,  a  vow  of  friendship  or  a  hymn  of  grati- 
tude ...  It  must  not  be  supposed  that  because 
these  productions  are  concise  they  have  therefore, 
the  more  facility  ;  we  must  not  consider  the  genius 
of  a  poet  diminutive  because  his  pieces  are  so,  nor 
must  we  call  them,  as  a  fine  sonnet  has  been  called, 
a  difficult  trifle.  A  circle  may  be  very  small,  yet 
it  may  be  as  mathematically  beautiful  and  perfect 
as  a  larger  one.  To  such  compositions  we  may 
apply  the  observation  of  an  ancient  critic,  that 
though  a  little  thing  gives  perfection,  yet  perfec- 
tion is  not  a  little  thing. 

"  The  poet  to  succeed  in  these  hazardous  pieces 
must  be  alike  polished  by  an  intercourse  with  the 
world,  as  with  the  studies  of  taste,  to  whom  labor 
is  negligence,  refinement  a  science,  and  art  a 
nature.  Genius  will  not  always  be  sufficient  to 
impart  that  grace  of  amenity  which  seems  pecu- 
liar to  those  who  are  accustomed  to  elegant 


XJV  PREFACE. 

society.  .  .  .  These  productions  are  more  the  effu- 
sions of  taste  than  genius,  and  it  is  not  sufficient 
that  the  poet  is  inspired  by  the  Muse,  he  must  also 
suffer  his  concise  page  to  be  polished  by  the  hand 
of  the  Graces." 

A  reviewer  in  The  Times  newspaper  has  made 
the  following  noteworthy  remarks  on  the  subject 
of  vers  de  societe,  more  especially  of  a  certain  kind  : 
"  It  is  the  poetry  of  men  who  belong  to  society, 
who  have  a  keen  sympathy  with  the  lightsome  tone 
and  airy  jesting  of  fashion  ;  who  are  not  disturbed 
by  the  flippances  of  small  talk,  but  on  the  contrary, 
can  see  the  gracefulness  of  which  it  is  capable, 
and  who,  nevertheless,  amid  all  this  froth  of  society, 
feel  that  there  are  depths  in  our  nature,  which  even 
in  the  gayety  of  drawing-rooms  cannot  be  forgotten. 
Theirs  is  the  poetry  of  bitter-sweet,  of  sentiment 
that  breaks  into  humor,  and  of  solemn  thought, 
which,  lest  it  should  be  too  solemn,  plunges  into 
laughter ;  it  is  in  an  especial  sense  the  verse  of  so- 
ciety. When  society  ceases  to  be  simple  it  be- 
comes sceptical.  Nor  are  we  utterly  to  condemn 
this  sceptical  temper  as  a  sign  of  corruption.  It 
is  assumed  in  self-defence,  and  becomes  a  neces- 
sity of  rapid  conversation.  When  society  becomes 
refined,  it  begins  to  dread  the  exhibition  of  strong 
feeling,  no  matter  whether  real  or  simulated.  If 
real,  it  disturbs  the  level  of  conversation  and  of 
manners — if  simulated,  so  much  the  worse.  In 
such  an  atmosphere,  emotion  takes  refuge  in  jest, 


PREFA  CE.  xv 

and  passion  hides  itself  in  scepticism  of  passion  : 
we  are  not  going  to  wear  our  hearts  upon  our 
sleeves,  rather  than  that  we  shall  pretend  to  have 
no  heart  at  all ;  and  if,  perchance,  a  bit  of  it  should 
peep  out,  we  shall  hide  it  again  as  quickly  as  pos- 
sible, and  laugh  at  the  exposure  as  a  good  joke 

In  the  poets  who  represent  this  social  mood  there 
is  a  delicious  piquancy,  and  the  way  they  play  at 
bo-peep  with  their  feelings  makes  them  a  class  by 
themselves." 

Suckling  and  Herrick,  Swift  and  Prior,  Cowper, 
Landor,  and  Thomas  Moore,  and  Praed  and  Thack- 
eray, may  be  considered  the  representative  men 
in  this  branch  of  literature. 

Unfortunately,  the  copyright  of  Mr.  Thackeray's 
poems  has  become  the  property  of  his  publishers, 
and  they  have  declined  to  allow  any  extracts  from 
his  works  to  be  printed  here  ;  but  the  Editor  has 
given  a  list  in  the  table  of  contents  of  those  pieces 
of  vers  de  societe  by  which  he  thinks  Mr.  Thackeray 
will  hereafter  be  honorably  remembered. 

Thanks  are  due  to  the  other  proprietors  of  the 
respective  copyright  pieces,  for  their  courtesy  and 
liberality  in  allowing  their  insertion. 

This  collection  has  been  arranged  more  or  less 
chronologically,  but  to  give  it  variety,  the  works 
of  contemporary  writers  have  been  mixed,  and 
where  two  authors  have  written  on  the  same  sub- 
ject, though  at  different  epochs,  it  has  been  thought 
interesting  to  bring  them  side  by  side.  For  this 


xvi  PREFACE. 

reason  the  epitaphs,  epigrams,  political  squibs,  and 
convival  pieces,  etc.,  have  been  kept  together,  and 
occur  at  intervals  throughout  the  volume. 

The  collection  has  been  restricted  to  the  writ- 
ings of  deceased  authors,  and  as  this  kind  of  me- 
trical composition  is  little  cultivated  at  the  present 
day,  the  Editor  hopes  that  his  book  will  not  much 
suffer  in  consequence,  although  he  regrets  that 
the  rule  which  he  has  laid  down  prevents  his  giv- 
ing specimens  from  the  writings  of  Messrs.  Brown- 
ing and  Tennyson,  of  Lord  Houghton,  of  Messrs. 
C.  S.  Calverly,  George  Cayley,  Mortimer  Collins, 
and  Planche',  and  of  Dr.  O.  W.  Holmes,  the  Ame- 
rican poet,  and  perhaps  the  best  living  writer  of 
this  species  of  verse ;  and  of  some  others  who  have 
written  anonymously. 

Much  difficulty  has  been  encountered  in  fixing 
the  correct  reading  of  several  of  the  poems,  which 
varies  in  different  collections ;  and  wherever  the 
Editor  has  felt  a  doubt  about  the  authorship  of  a 
poem,  he  has  preferred  leaving  the  question  open. 

He  has  taken  great  care  to  make  the  selection 
as  complete  as  possible,  still  he  trusts  to  the  indul- 
gence of  his  readers  for  any  omissions  or  errors 
which  it  may  exhibit. 

FREDERICK  LOCKER. 


LYRA    ELEGANTIARUM. 


To  MISTRESS  MARGARET  HUSSEY. 

MERRY  Margaret, 

As  Midsummer  flower, 

Gentle  as  falcon, 

Or  hawk  of  the  tower; 

With  solace  and  gladness, 

Much  mirth  and  no  madness 

All  good  and  no  badness ; 

So  joyously, 

So  maidenly, 

So  womanly, 

Her  demeaning, 

In  everything, 

Far,  far  passing, 

That  I  can  indite, 

Or  suffice  to  write 

Of  merry  Margaret, 

As  Midsummer  flower, 

Gentle  as  falcon, 

Or  hawk  of  the  tower ; 

As  patient  and  as  still, 

And  as  full  of  good  will, 

As  fair  Isiphil, 

Coliander, 

Sweet  Pomander, 

Good  Cassander; 

Steadfast  of  thought, 

Well  made,  well  wrought. 

Far  may  be  sought, 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

Ere  you  can  find 

So  courteous,  so  kind, 

As  merry  Margaret 

This  Midsummer  flower, 

Gentle  as  falcon, 

Or  hawk  of  the  tower. 

John  Skelton. 


THE  ONE  HE  WOULD  LOVE. 

A  FACE  that  should  content  me  wondrous  well 
Should  not  be  fat,  but  lovely  to  behold  ; 

Of  lively  look,  all  grief  for  to  repel 

With  right  good  grace,  so  would  I  that  it  should 

Speak  without  words,  such  words  as  none  can  tell ; 
Her  tress  also  should  be  of  crisped  gold. 

With  wit,  and  these,  perchance,  I  might  be  tried, 

And  knit  again  with  knot  that  should  not  slide. 

Sir  Thomas  Wyat. 


THE  SERENADE. 

"  WHO  is  it  that  this  dark  night 
Underneath  my  window  plaineth  ?  " — 

It  is  one  who  from  thy  sight 
Being  (ah  !)  exiled,  disdaineth 

Every  other  vulgar  light. 

"  Why,  alas !  and  are  you  he  ? 

Are  not  yet  these  fancies  changed  ?  " — 
Dear,  when  you  find  change  in  me, 

Though  from  me  you  be  estranged, 
Let  my  change  to  ruin  be. 

"  What  if  you  new  beauties  see  ? 

Will  not  they  stir  new  affection  ?  "— 
I  will  think  they  pictures  be 

(Image-like  of  saint  perfection) 
Poorly  counterfeiting  thee. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

"  Peace !  I  think  that  some  give  ear, 
Come,  no  more,  lest  I  get  anger." — 

Bliss  !  I  will  my  bliss  forbear, 
Fearing,  sweet,  you  to  endanger; 

But  my  soul  shall  harbor  there. 

"  Well,  begone:  begone,  I  say, 

Lest  that  Argus'  eyes  perceive  you." — 
O  !  unjust  is  Fortune's  sway, 

Which  can  make  me  thus  to  leave  you, 
And  from  louts  to  run  away  ! 

Sir  Philip  Sydney. 


IV. 

LOVE  is  a  sickness  full  of  woes, 

All  remedies  refusing ; 
A  plant  that  most  with  cutting  grows, 
Most  barren  with  best  using. 

Why  so  ? 

More  we  enjoy  it,  more  it  dies, 
If  not  enjoy'd,  it  sighing  cries 
Heigh-ho  ! 

Love  is  a  torment  of  the  mind, 

A  tempest  everlasting ; 
And  Jove  hath  made  it  of  a  kind 
Not  well,  nor  full,  nor  fasting. 

Why  so? 

More  we  enjoy  it,  more  it  dies; 
If  not  enjoy  d,  it  sighing  cries 
Heigh-ho  ! 

Sarmiel  Daniel. 


v. 
A  DITTY. 

My  true  love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have  his, 
By  just  exchange  one  to  the  other  given: 

I  hold  his  dear,  and  mine  he  cannot  miss, 
There  never  was  a  better  bargain  driven: 
My  true  love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have  his. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

His  heart  in  me  keeps  him  and  me  in  one, 

My  heart  in  him  his  thoughts  and  senses  guides: 
He  loves  my  heart,  for  once  it  was  his  own, 
I  cherish  his  because  in  me  it  bides : 
My  true  love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have  his. 

Sir  Philip  Sydtuy. 


VL 

MY  flocks  feed  not,  my  ewes  breed  not, 
My  rams  speed  not,  all  is  amiss  : 
Love  is  dying,  Faith's  defying, 
Heart's  denying,  causer  of  this. 
All  my  merry  jigs  are  quite  forgot, 
All  my  lady's  love  is  lost,  God  wot: 
Where  her  faith  was  firmly  fix'd  in  love, 
There  a  nay  is  placed  without  remove. 
One  silly  cross  wrought  all  my  loss  ; 

O  frowning  Fortune,  cursed,  fickle  dame ! 
For  now  I  see  inconstancy 

More  in  women  than  in  men  remain. 

In  black  mourn  I,  all  fears  scorn  I, 
Love  hath  forlorn  me,  living  in  thrall ; 
Heart  is  bleeding,  all  help  needing, 
(O  cruel  speeding !)  fraughted  with  gall. 
My  shepherd's  pipe  can  sound  no  deal, 
My  wether's  bell  rings  doleful  knell ; 
My  curtail  dog,  that  wont  to  have  play'd, 
Plays  not  at  all,  but  seems  afraid  ; 
With  sighs  so  deep  procures  to  weep, 

In  howling  wise,  to  see  my  doleful  plight 
How  sighs  resound  through  heartless  ground, 

Like  a  thousand  vanquish 'd  men  in  bloody  fight ! 

Clear  wells  spring  not,  sweet  birds  sing  not, 
Green  plants  bring  not  forth ;  they  die ; 
Herbs  stand  weeping,  flocks  all  sleeping, 
Nymphs  back  peeping  fearfully: 
Ail  our  pleasure  known  to  us  poor  swains, 
All  our  merry  meetings  on  the  plains, 
All  our  evening  sport  from  us  is  fled, 
All  our  Love  is  lost,  for  Love  is  dead. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  5 

Farewell,  sweet  lass,  thy  like  ne'er  was 
For  a  sweet  content,  the  cause  of  all  my  moan ; 

Poor  Coridon  must  live  alone; 
Other  help  for  him  I  see  that  there  is  none. 

William  Shakespere. 

VII. 

A  RENUNCIATION. 

IF  women  could  be  fair,  and  yet  not  fond, 
Or  that  their  love  were  firm,  not  fickle  still, 

I  would  not  marvel  that  they  make  men  bond 
By  service  long  to  purchase  their  good  will; 

But  when  I  see  how  frail  those  creatures  are, 

I  muse  that  men  forget  themselves  so  far. 

To  mark  the  choice  they  make,  and  how  they  change, — 
How  oft  from  Phoebus  they  do  flee  to  Pan  ! 

Unsettled  still,  like  haggards  wild  they  range, 
These  gentle  birds  that  fly  from  man  to  man  I 

Who  would  not  scorn  and  shake  them  from  the  fist, 

And  let  them  fly,  fair  fools,  which  way  they  list  ? 

Yet  for  disport  we  fawn  and  flatter  both, 
To  pass  the  time  when  nothing  else  can  please, 

And  train  them  to  our  lure,  with  subtle  oath, 
Till,  weary  of  their  wiles,  ourselves  we  ease; 

And  then  we  say  when  we  their  fancy  try, 

To  play  with  fools,  O  what  a  fool  was  I ! 

Edward  Vere,  Earl  of  Oxford. 


VIII. 

HAPPY  AS  A  SHEPHERD. 

AH  !  what  is  love  !     It  is  a  pretty  thing, 
As  sweet  unto  a  shepherd  as  a  king, 

And  sweeter,  too ; 

For  kings  have  cares  that  wait  upon  a  crown, 
And  cares  can  make  the  sweetest  loves  to  frown  : 

Ah  then,  ah  then, 

If  country  loves  such  sweet  desires  do  gain, 
What  lady  would  not  love  a  shepherd  swain  ? 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

His  flocks  are  folded;  he  comes  home  at  night 
As  merry  as  a  king  in  his  delight, 

And  merrier,  too; 

For  kings  bethink  them  what  the  State  require, 
Where  shepherds  careless  carol  by  the  fire; 

Ah  then,  &c. 

He  kisseth  first,  then  sits  as  blithe  to  eat 

His  cream  and  curd,  as  doth  the  king  his  meat, 

And  blither  too ; 

For  kings  have  often  tremors  when  they  sup, 
Where  shepherds  dread  no  poison  in  their  cup : 

Ah  then,  &c. 

Upon  his  couch  of  straw  he  sleeps  as  sound 
As  doth  the  king  upon  his  bed  of  down, 

More  sounder,  too  ; 

For  cares  cause  kings  full  oft  their  sleep  to  spill, 
Where  weary  shepherds  lie  and  snort  their  fill : 

Ah  then,  &c. 

Thus  with  his  wife  he  spends  the  year  as  blithe 
As  doth  the  king  at  every  tide  or  syth, 

And  blither,  too  ; 

For  kings  have  wars  and  broils  to  take  in  hand, 
Wrhere  shepherds  laugh,  and  love  upon  the  land; 

Ah  then,  &c. 

Robert  Greene, 


IX. 

PHILLIDA  AND  CORYDON. 

IN  the  merry  month  of  May, 
In  a  morn  by  break  of  day, 
With  a  troop  of  damsels  playing, 
Forth  I  rode,  forsooth,  a-maying, 
When  anon  by  a  woodside, 
Where  as  May  was  in  his  pride, 
I  espied,  all  alone, 
Phillida  and  Corydon. 

Much  ado  there  was,  God  wot ! 
He  would  love,  and  she  would  not ; 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

She  said,  never  man  was  true : 

He  says,  none  was  false  to  you. 

He  said,  he  had  loved  her  long: 

She  says,  Love  should  have  no  wrong. 

Corydon  would  kiss  her  then, 
She  says,  maids  must  kiss  no  men, 
Till  they  do  for  good  and  all. 
Then  she  made  the  shepherd  call 
All  the  heavens  to  witness,  truth 
Never  loved  a  truer  youth. 

Thus  with  many  a  pretty  oath, 
Yea,  and  nay,  and  faith  and  troth  ! — 
Such  as  silly  shepherds  use 
When  they  will  not  love  abuse  ; 
Love,  which  had  been  long  deluded, 
Was  with  kisses  sweet  concluded  : 
And  Phillida,  with  garlands  gay, 
Was  made  the  lady  of  the  May. 

Nicholas  Breton. 

x. 

SEND  back  my  long-stray'd  eyes  to  me, 
Which,  O  1  too  long  have  dwelt  on  thee : 
But  if  from  you  they've  learnt  such  ill, 

To  sweetly  smile, 

And  then  beguile, 
Keep  the  deceivers,  keep  them  still. 

Send  home  my  harmless  heart  again, 
Which  no  unworthy  thought  could  stain  ; 
But  if  it  has  been  taught  by  thine 

To  forfeit  both 

Its  word  and  oath, 
Keep  it,  for  then  'tis  none  of  mine. 

Yet  send  me  back  my  heart  and  eyes, 

For  I'll  know  all  thy  falsities; 

That  I  one  day  may  laugh,  when  thou 

Shalt  grieve  and  mourn — 

Of  one  the  scorn, 
Who  proves  as  false  as  thou  art  now. 

John  Donne. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 
XI. 

WOMAN'S  INCONSTANCY. 

I  LOVED  thee  once,  I'll  love  no  more, 
Thine  be  the  grief  as  is  the  blame  ; 
Thou  art  not  what  thou  wast  before, 
What  reason  I  should  be  the  same  ? 
He  that  can  love  unloved  again, 
Hath  better  store  of  love  than  brain  : 
God  send  me  love  my  debts  to  pay, 
While  unthrifts  fool  their  love  away  ! 

Nothing  could  have  my  love  o'erthrown, 

If  thou  hadst  still  continued  mine  ; 
Yea,  if  thou  hadst  remain'd  thy  own, 
I  might  perchance  have  yet  been  thine. 
But  thou  thy  freedom  didst  recall, 
That  if  thou  might  elsewhere  inthrall 
And  then  how  could  I  but  disdain 
A  captive's  captive  to  remain  ? 

When  new  desires  had  conquer'd  thee, 
And  changed  the  object  of  thy  will, 
It  had  been  lethargy  in  me, 

Not  constancy  to  love  thee  still. 

Yea,  it  had  been  a  sin  to  go 

And  prostitute  affection  so, 

Since  we  are  taught  no  prayers  to  say 

To  such  as  must  to  others  pray. 

Yet  do  thou  glory  in  thy  choice, — 

Thy  choice  of  his  good  fortune  boast ; 
I'll  neither  grieve  nor  yet  rejoice 
To  see  him  gain  what  I  have  lost ; 
The  height  of  my  disdain  shall  be 
To  laugh  at  him,  to  blush  for  thee  ; 
To  love  thee  still,  but  go  no  more 
A-begging  to  a  beggar's  door. 

Sir  Robert  Ay  ton. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 
XII. 

A  VALENTINE. 

WHEN  slumber  first  unclouds  my  brain, 

And  thought  is  free, 
And  sense  refresh'd  renews  her  reign, — 

I  think  of  thee. 

When  next  in  prayer  to  God  above 

I  bend  my  knee, 
Then  when  I  pray  for  those  I  love, — 

I  pray  for  thee. 

And  when  the  duties  of  the  day 

Demand  of  me 
To  rise  and  journey  on  life's  way, — 

I  work  for  thee, 

Or  if,  perchance,  I  sing  some  lay, 

Whate'er  it  be  ; 
All  that  the  idle  verses  say, — 

They  say  of  thee. 

If  of  an  eye  whose  liquid  light 

Gleams  like  the  sea, 
They  sing,  or  tresses  brown  and  bright,— 

They  sing  of  thee. 

And  if  a  weary  mood,  or  sad, 

Possesses  me, 
One  thought  can  all  times  make  me  glad,- 

The  thought  of  thee. 

And  when  once  more  upon  my  bed, 

Full  wearily, 
In  sweet  repose  I  lay  my  head, — 

I  dream  of  thee. 

In  short,  one  only  wish  I  have, 

To  live  for  thee  ; 
Or  gladly  if  one  pang  'twould  save, 

I'd  die  for  thee. 

Unknown. 


10  LYRA  ELEGANT/ARUM. 


XIII. 

SINCE  first  I  saw  your  face  I  resolved 

To  honor  and  renown  you ; 
If  now  I  be  disdain'd,  I  wish 

My  heart  had  never  known  you. 
What  ?  I  that  loved,  and  you  that  liked— 

Shall  we  begin  to  wrangle  ? — 
No,  no,  no,  my  heart  is  fast, 

And  cannot  disentangle  1 

If  I  admire  or  praise  you  too  much, 

That  fault  you  may  forgive  me; 
Or  if  my  hands  had  stray'd  to  touch, 

Then  justly  might  you  leave  me. 
I  ask'd  you  leave,  you  bade  me  love, 

Is't  now  a  time  to  chide  me  ? 
No,  no,  no,  I'll  love  you  still, 

What  fortune  e'er  betide  me. 

The  sun,  whose  beams  most  glorious  are, 

Rejecteth  no  beholder ; 
And  thy  sweet  beauty,  past  compare, 

Made  my  poor  eyes  the  bolder. 
Where  beauty  moves,  and  wit  delights, 

And  signs  of  kindness  bind  me, 
There,  oh !  there,  where'er  I  go, 

I  leave  my  heart  behind  me. 

Unknown, 


XIV. 

As  at  noon  Dulcina  rested 

In  her  sweet  and  shady  bower, 
Came  a  shepherd,  and  requested 
In  her  lap  to  sleep  an  hour. 
But  from  her  look 
A  wound  he  took 
So  deep,  that  for  a  further  boon 
The  nymph  he  prays, 
Whereto  she  says, 
"  Forego  me  now,  come  to  me  soon.' 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

But  in  vain  she  did  conjure  him 

To  depart  her  presence  so; 
Having  a  thousand  tongues  to  allure  him, 
And  but  one  to  bid  him  go  : 
Where  lips  invite, 
And  eyes  delight, 

And  cheeks,  as  fresh  as  rose  in  June, 
Persuade  delay; 
What  boots  she  say, 
"  Forego  me  now,  come  to  me  soon." 

Unknown. 

xv. 

O  MISTRESS  mine,  where  are  you  roaming  ? 
O  stay  and  hear  !  your  true  love's  coming, 

That  can  sing  both  high  and  low; 
Trip  no  further,  pretty  sweeting, 
Journeys  end  in  lovers'  meeting — 

Every  wise  man's  son  doth  know. 

What  is  love  ?  'tis  not  hereafter ; 
Present  mirth  hath  present  laughter; 

What's  to  come  is  still  unsure  ; 
In  delay  there  lies  no  plenty, — 
Then  come  kiss  me,  Sweet-and-twenty, 

Youth's  a  stuff  will  not  endure. 

William  Shakspere 
xvr. 

I  DO  confess  thou'rt  smooth  and  fair, 

And  I  might  have  gone  near  to  love  thee  ; 

Had  I  not  found  the  slightest  prayer 
That  lips  could  speak  had  power  to  move  thee  : 

But  I  can  let  thee  now  alone, 

As  worthy  to  be  loved  by  none. 

I  do  confess  thou'rt  sweet,  yet  find 

Thee  such  an  unthrift  of 'thy  sweets, 
Thy  favors  are  but  like  the  wind, 

That  kisses  everything  it  meets  : 
And  since  thou  canst  with  more  than  one 
Thou'rt  worthy  to  be  kiss'd  by  none. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

The  morning  rose,  that  untouch'd  stands, 
Arm'd  with  her  briars,  how  sweet  her  smell  I 

But  pluck'd,  and  strain'd  through  ruder  hands, 
Her  sweets  no  longer  with  her  dwell ; 

But  scent  and  beauty  both  are  gone, 

And  leaves  fall  from  her,  one  by  one. 

Such  fate,  ere  long,  will  thee  betide, 
When  thou  hast  handled  been  awhile, 

Like  sere  flowers  to  be  thrown  aside  ; 
And  I  will  sigh,  while  some  will  smile, 

To  see  thy  love  for  more  than  one 

Hath  brought  thee  to  be  loved  by  none. 

Sir  fiobert  Ayton. 

XVII. 

A  STOLEN  Kiss. 

Now  gentle  sleep  hath  closed  up  those  eyes 

Which,  waking,  kept  my  boldest  thoughts  in  awe  ; 
And  free  access  unto  that  sweet  lip  lies, 

From  whence  I  long  the  rosy  breath  to  draw. 
Methinks  no  wrong  it  were,  if  I  should  steal 

From  those  two  melting  rubies  one  poor  kiss  ; 
None  sees  the  theft  that  would  the  theft  reveal, 

Nor  rob  I  her  of  aught  that  she  can  miss ; 
Nay,  should  I  twenty  kisses  take  away, 

There  would  be  little  sign  I  would  do  so  ; 
Why  then  should  I  this  robbery  delay  ? 

O,  she  may  wake,  and  therewith  angry  grow ! 
Well,  if  she  do,  I'll  back  restore  that  one, 
And  twenty  hundred  thousand  more  for  loan. 

George  Wither. 

XVIII. 

To  CELIA. 

DRINK  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes, 

And  I  will  pledge  with  mine ; 
Or  leave  a  kiss  but  in  the  cup 

And  I'll  not  look  for  wine. 
The  thirst  that  from  the  soul  doth  rise 

Doth  ask  a  drink  divine; 
But  might  I  of  Jove's  nectar  sup, 

I  would  not  change  for  thine. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

I  sent  thee  late  a  rosy  wreath, 

Not  so  much  honoring  thee 
As  giving  it  a  hope  that  there 

It  could  not  wither'd  be  : 
But  thou  thereon  didst  only  breathe 

And  sent'st  it  back  to  me  ; 
Since  when  it  grows,  and  smells,  I  swear, 

Not  of  itself,  but  thee ! 

Ben  jfonson. 

XIX. 

A  MADRIGAL. 

AMARYLLIS  I  did  woo, 
And  I  courted  Phillis  too; 
Daphne  for  her  love  I  chose, 
Chloris,  for  that  damask  rose 
In  her  cheek,  I  held  so  dear, 
Yea,  a  thousand  liked  well  near  ; 
And  in  love  with  all  together, 
Feared  the  enjoying  either  : 
'Cause  to  be  of  one  possess'd, 
Barr'd  the  hope  of  all  the  rest. 

George  Wither. 


xx. 

CHARTS. 
Her  Triumph. 

SEE  the  chariot  at  hand  here  of  Love, 

Wherein  my  lady  rideth ! 
Each  that  draws  is  a  swan  or  a  dove. 

And  well  the  car  Love  guideth. 
As  she  goes  all  hearts  do  duty 
Unto  her  beauty  ; 

And  enamour'd,  do  wish,  as  they  might 
But  enjoy  such  a  sight, 
That  they  still  were  to  run  by  her  side, 
Through  swords,  through  seas,  whither  she  would 

ride. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

Do  but  look  on  her  eyes,  they  do  light 
All  that  Love's  world  compriseth  ! 

Do  but  look  on  her,  she  is  bright 
As  Love's  star  when  it  riseth  ! 

Do  but  mark,  her  forehead's  smoother 

Than  words  that  soothe  her  ! 

And  from  her  arch'd  brows,  such  a  grace 

Sheds  itself  through  her  face, 

As  alone  there  triumphs  to  the  life 

All  the  gain,  all  the  good  of  the  elements'  strife. 

Have  you  seen  but  a  bright  lily  grow, 
Before  rude  hands  have  touch'd  it  ? 

Have  you  mark'd  but  the  fall  o'  the  sno 
Before  the  soil  hath  smutch'd  it  ? 

Have  you  felt  the  wool  of  the  beaver? 

Or  swan's  down  ever  ? 

Or  have  smell'd  o'  the  bud  of  the  briar  ? 

Or  the  'nard  in  the  fire  ? 

Or  have  tasted  the  bag  of  the  bee  ? 

O  so  white  ?  O  so  soft  1  O  so  sweet  is  she ! 

Ben  Jonson, 


XXI. 

A  FRAGMENT. 

HE  that  loves  a  rosy  cheek, 

Or  a  coral  lip  admires, 
Or  from  star-like  eyes  doth  seek 

Fuel  to  maintain  his  fires  ; 
As  old  Time  makes  these  decay, 
So  his  flames  must  waste  away. 

But  a  smooth  and  steadfast  mind, 
Gentle  thoughts,  and  calm  desires, — 

Hearts  with  equal  love  combined, 
Kindle  never-dying  fires ; 

Where  these  are  not,  I  despise 

Lovely  cheeks,  or  lips,  or  eyes. 

Thomas  Carew. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  15 

XXII. 

A  LOVER  of  late  was  I, 

For  Cupid  would  have  it  so ; 
(The  boy  that  had  never  an  eye — 

As  every  man  doth  know. ) 
I  sigh'd,  and  sobb'd,  and  cried  "  alas," 
For  her  that  laugh' d  and  call'd  me  ass. 

Then  knew  not  I  what  to  do, 

When  I  saw  it  was  in  vain 
A  lady  so  coy  to  woo, 

Who  gave'me  the  ass  so  plain  ; 
Yet  would  I  her  ass  freely  be, 
So  she  would  help,  and  bear  with  me. 

An'  I  were  as  fair  as  she, 

Or  she  were  as  kind  as  me, 
What  pair  could  have  made,  as  we 

So  pretty  a  sympathy  : 
I  was  as  kind  as  she  was  fair  ; 
But  for  all  this  we  could  not  pair. 

Pair  with  her  that  will  for  me ! — 

With  her  I  will  never  pair 
That  cunningly  can  be  coy, 

For  being  a'little  fair — 
The  ass  I'll  leave  to  her  disdain  ; 
And  now  I  am  myself  again. 

Unknown. 


XXIII. 

FAIN  would  I,  Chloris,  ere  I  die, 
Bequeath  you  such  a  legacy, 
That  you  might  say,  when  I  am  gone, 
None'hath  the  like  : — my  heart  alone 
Were  the  best  gift  I  could  bestow, 
But  that's  already  yours,  you  know : 
So  that  till  you  my  heart  resign, 
Or  fill  with  yours  the  place  of  mine, 
And  by  that  grace  my  store  renew, 
I  shall  have  nought  worth  giving  you 


1 6  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

Whose  breast  has  all  the  wealth  I  have, 
Save  a  faint  carcass  and  a  grave. 
But  had  I  as  many  hearts  as  hairs, 
As  many  loves  as  love  hath  fears, 
As  many  lives  as  years  have  hours, 
They  should  be  all  and  only  yours. 

Unknown. 


XXIV. 

THE  WILLOW  TREE. 

WILLY. 

How  now,  shepherd,  what  means  that  ? 
Why  that  willow  in  thy  hat  ? 
Why  thy  scarfs  of  red  and  yellow, 
Turn'd  to  branches  of  green  willow  ? 

CUDDY. 

They  are  changed,  and  so  am  I ; 
Sorrows  live,  but  pleasures  die: 
Phi  His  hath  forsaken  me, 
Which  makes  me  wear  the  willow-tree. 

WILLY. 

Phillis  !  she  that  loved  thee  long  ? 
Is  she  the  lass  hath  done  thee  wrong  ? 
She  that  loved  thee  long  and  best, 
Is  her  love  turn'd  to  a  jest  ? 

CUDDY. 

She  that  long  true  love  profest, 
She  hath  robb'd  my  heart  of  rest  : 
For  she  a  new  love  loves,  not  me  ; 
Which  makes  me  wear  the  willow-tree. 

WILLY. 

Come  then,  shepherd,  let  us  join, 
Since  thy  hap  is  like  to  mine  : 
For  the  maid  I  thought  most  true, 
She  hath  also  bid  adieu. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  17 

CUDDY. 

Thy  hard  hap  doth  mine  appease, 
Company  doth  sorrow  ease  : 
Yet,  Phillis,  shall  I  pine  for  thee, 
And  still  must  wear  the  willow-tree. 

WILLY. 

Shepherd,  be  advised  by  me, 
Cast  off  grief  and  willow-tree  ; 
For  thy  griefs  bring  her  content, 
She  is  pleased  if  thou  lament. 

CUDDY. 

Herdsman,  I'll  be  ruled  by  thee, 
There  lie  grief  and  willow-tree  ; 
Henceforth  I  will  do  as  they, 
And  love  a  new  love  every  day. 

Unknown. 


XXV. 

THE  INQUIRY. 

AMONGST  the  myrtles  as  I  walk'd 

Love  and  my  sighs,  thus  intertalk'd  : 

"  Tell  me,"  said  I,  in  deep  distress, 

"  Where  may  I  find  my  shepherdess  ?  " 

"  Thou  fool,'"  said  Love,  "  know'st  thou  not  this, 

In  everything  that's  good,  she  is  ? 

In  yonder  tulip  go  and  seek, 

There  thou  may'st  find  her  lip,  her  cheek  ; 

In  yon  enamell'd  pansy  by, 
There  thou  shalt  have  her  curious  eye  ; 
In  bloom  of  peach,  in  rosy  bud, 
There  wave  the  streamers  of  her  blood  ; 
In  brightest  lilies  that  there  stand, 
The  emblems  of  her  whiter  hand  ; 
In  yonder  rising  hill  there  smell 
Such  sweets  as  in  her  bosom  dwell  "; 
"  Tis  true,"  said  I.     And  thereupon 
I  went  to  pluck  them  one  by  one, 
To  make  of  parts  an  union  : 
But  on  u  sudden  all  was  gone. 


IS  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

With  that  I  stopt.     Said  Love,  "  these  be, 
Fond  man,  resemblances  of  thee ; 
And  as  these  flowers,  thy  joy  shall  die, 
E'en  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  ; 
And  all  thy  hopes  of  her  shall  wither. 
Like  these  short  sweets  thus  knit  together." 

Thomas  Carew. 


XXVI. 

A  DIALOGUE  BETWEEN  HIMSELF  AND  MISTRESS  ELIZA 
WHEELER,  UNDER  THE  NAME  OF  AMARILLIS. 

(H.)  MY  dearest  love,  since  thou  wilt  go, 
And  leave  me  here  behind  thee  ; 
For  love  or  pity,  let  me  know 
The  place  where  I  may  find  thee. 

(A)  In  country  meadows,  pearl'd  with  dew, 

And  set  about  with  lilies ; 
There,  filling  maunds  with  cowslips,  you 
May  find  your  Amarillis. 

(H.)  What  have  the  meads  to  do  with  thee, 

Or  with  thy  youthful  hours  ? 
Live  thou  at  Court,  where  thou  may'st  be 
The  queen  of  men — not  flowers. 

Let  country  wenches  make  'em  fine 

With  posies,  since  'tis  fitter 
For  thee  with  richest  gems  to  shine, 

And  like  the  stars  to  glitter. 

(A.)  You  set  too  high  a  rate  upon 

A  shepherdess  so  homely. 
(H.)  Believe  it,  dearest,  there's  not  one 

I*  th'  Court  that's  half  so  comely. 

I  prithee  stay.  (A.)  I  must  away; 
Let's  kiss  first,  then  we'll  sever  ; 
(A MHO.)  And  tho'  we  bid  adieu  to-day, 
We  shall  not  part  for  ever. 

Robert  Herrick. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 
XXVII. 

THE  PRIMROSE. 

ASK  me  why  I  send  you  here 

This  firstling  of  the  infant  year; 

Ask  me  why  I  send  to  you 

This  primrose  all  bepearl'd  with  dew  ; 

I  straight  will  whisper  in  your  ears, 

The  sweets  of  love  are  wash'd  with  tears; 

Ask  me  why  this  flower  doth  show 

So  yellow,  green,  and  sickly  too; 

Ask  me  why  the  stalk  is  weak, 

And  bending,  yet  it  doth  not  break  ; 

I  must  tell  you,  these  discover 

What  doubts  and  fears  are  in  a  lover. 

Thomas  Carew. 


THE  SHEPHERD'S  DESCRIPTION  OF  LOVE. 

"  SHEPHERD,  what's  love  ?  I  pray  thee,  tell  !  " 

It  is  that  fountain,  and  that  well, 

Where  pleasure  and  repentance  dwell ; 

It  is,  perhaps,  that  passing  bell 

That  tolls  us  all  to  heaven  or  hell ; 

And  this  is  love,  as  I  heard  tell. 

"  Yet,  what  is  love  ?    I  pray  thee,  say  !  " — 
It  is  a  work  on  holiday  : 
It  is  December  match'd  with  May, 
When  lusty  woods,  in  fresh  array, 
Hear,  ten  months  after,  of  the  play; 
And  this  is  love,  as  I  hear  say. 

"  Yet,  what  is  love  ?  good  shepherd,  saine  !  "— 

It  is  a  sunshine  mix'd  with  rain ; 

It  is  a  tooth-ache,  or  like  pain  ; 

It  is  a  game  where  none  doth  gain, 

The  lass  saith,  No,  and  would  full  fain  ! 

A.nd  this  is  love,  as  I  hear  saine. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

"  Yet,  shepherd,  what  is  love,  I  pray  ? " — 

It  is  a  "  yea,"  it  is  a  "  nay," 

A  pretty  kind  of  sporting  fray; 

It  is  a  thing  will  soon  away  ; 

Then,  nymphs,  take  vantage  while  ye  may, 

And  this  is  love,  as  I  hear  say. 

"  Yet,  what  is  love  ?  good  shepherd,  show !  " — 

A  thing  that  creeps,  it  cannot  go, 

A  prize  that  passeth  to  and  fro, 

A  thing  for  one,  a  thing  for  moe  ; 

And  he  that  proves  shall  find  it  so  ; 

And,  shepherd,  this  is  love  I  trow. 

Sir  Walter  Raleigh. 


To  His  MISTRESS  OBJECTING  TO  His  NKITHER  TOYING 
NOR  TAKING. 

You  say  I  love  not,  'cause  I  do  not  play. 
Still  with  your  curls,  and  kiss  the  time  away. 
You  blame  me,  too,  because  I  can't  devise 
Some  sport  to  please  those  babies  in  your  eyes; 
By  Love's  religion,  I  must  here  confess  it, 
The  most  I  love,  when  I  the  least  express  it, 
Some  griefs  find  tongues  ;  full  casks  are  ever  found 
To  give,  if  any,  yet  but  little  sound. 
Deep  waters  noiseless  are  ;  and  this  we  know, 
That  chiding  streams  betray  small  depth  below. 
So  when  Love  speechless  is,  she  doth  express 
A  depth  in  love,  and  that  depth  bottomless. 
Now  since  my  love  is  tongueless,  know  me  such, 
Who  speak  but  little,  'cause  I  love  so  much. 

Robert  Herrick. 


ASK  me  no  more  where  Jove  bestows, 
When  June  is  past,  the  fading  rose ; 
For  in  your  beauties,  orient  deep, 
These  flowers,  as  in  their  causes,  sleep. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  2l 

Ask  me  no  more  whither  do  stray 
The  golden  atoms  of  the  day ; 
For,  in  pure  love,  heaven  did  prepare 
Those  powders  to  enrich  your  hair. 

Ask  me  no  more  whither  doth  haste 
The  nightingale  when  May  is  past  ; 
For  in  your  sweet  dividing  throat 
She  winters  and  keeps  warm  her  note. 

Ask  me  no  more  where  those  stars  light, 
That  downwards  fall  in  dead  of  night  ; 
For  in  your  eyes  they  sit,  and  there 
Fixed  become,  as  in  their  sphere. 

Ask  me  no  more  if  east  or  west, 
The  phoenix  builds  her  spicy  nest ; 
For  unto  you  at  last  she  flies, 
And  in  your  fragrant  bosom  dies  ! 

Thomas   Carew. 
XXXI. 

JULIA'S  BED. 

SEE'ST  thou  that  cloud  as  silver  clear, 
Plump,  soft,  and  swelling  everywhere  ? 
Tis  Julia's  bed,  and  she  sleeps  there. 

Robert  Herrick. 

XXXII. 

UPON  JULIA'S  CLOTHES. 

WHEN  as  in  silks  my  Julia  goes, 

Then,  then,  methinks,  how  sweetly  flows 

That  liquefaction  of  her  clothes. 

Next  when  I  cast  mine  eyes,  and  see 
That  brave  vibration  each  way  free  ; 
Oh  how  that  glittering  taketh  me  ! 

Robert  Herrick. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 
XXXIII. 

DELIGHT  IN  DISORDER. 

A  SWEET  disorder  in  the  dress 

Kindles  in  clothes  a  wantonness  ; 

A  lawn  about  the  shoulders  thrown 

Into  a  fine  distraction  ; 

An  erring  lace,  which  here  and  there 

Enthralls  the  crimson  stomacher  ; 

A  cuff  neglectful,  and  thereby 

Ribbons  to  flow  confusedly ; 

A  winning  wave,  deserving  note, 

In  the  tempestuous  petticoat ; 

A  careless  shoe-string,  in  whose  tie 

I  see  a  wild  civility  ; 

Do  more  bewitch  me,  than  when  art 

Is  too  precise  in  every  part. 

Robert  Ilerrick. 

XXXIV. 

MY  Love  in  her  attire  doth  show  her  wit, 

It  doth  so  well  become  her  ; 
For  every  season  she  hath  dressings  fit, 

For  winter,  spring,  and  summer. 
No  beauty  she  doth  miss 
When  all  her  robes  are  on  : 
But  Beauty's  self  she  is 

When  all  her  robes  are  gone. 

Unknown. 

XXXV. 

CHERRY  RIPE. 

THERE  is  a  garden  in  her  face 

Where  roses  and  white  lilies  blow ; 

A  heavenly  paradise  is  that  place, 
Wherein  all  pleasant  fruits  do  grow; 

There  cherries  grow  that  none  may  buy, 

Till  cherry-ripe  themselves  do  cry. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

Those  cherries  fairly  do  enclose 

Of  orient  pearls  a  double  row, 
Which  when  her  lovely  laughter  shows, 

They  look  like  rose-buds  fill'd  with  snow  ; 
Yet  them  no  peer  nor  prince  may  buy, 
Till  cherry-ripe  themselves  do  cry. 

Her  eyes  like  angels  watch  them  still  ; 

Her  brows  like  bended  bows  do  stand 
Threat'ning  with  piercing  frowns  to  kill 

All  that  approach  with  eye  or  hand 
These  sacred  cherries  to  come  nigh, — 
Till  cherry-ripe  themselves  do  cry ! 

Unknown. 


THE  CARELESS  LOVER. 

NEVER  believe  me  if  I  love, 

Or  know  what  'tis,  or  mean  to  prove, — 

And  yet  in  faith  I  lie,  I  do, 

And  she's  extremely  handsome  too. 

She's  fair,  she's  wondrous  fair, 
But  I  care  not  who  knows  it, 
Ere  I  die  for  love,  I  fairly  will  forego  it. 

This  heat  of  hope,  or  cold  of  fear, 
My  foolish  heart  could  never  bear  : 
One  sigh  imprison'd  ruins  more 
Than  earthquakes  have  done  heretofore. 

When  I  am  hungry  I  do  eat, 
And  cut  no  fingers  'stead  of  meat ; 
Nor  with  much  gazing  on  her  face, 
Do  e'er  rise  hungry  from  the  place. 

A  gentle  round,  fill'd  to  the  brink, 
To  this  and  t'other  friend  I  drink  ; 
And  if  'tis  named  another's  health, 
I  never  make  it  hers  by  stealth. 

Black  Fryars  to  me,  and  old  Whitehall, 
Is  even  as  much  as  is  the  fall 
Of  fountains  or  a  pathless  grove, 
And  nourishes  as  much  my  love. 


24  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

I  visit,  talk,  do  business,  play, 
And,  for  a  need,  laugh  out  a  day  ; 
Who  does  not  thus  in  Cupid's  school, 
He  makes  not  love,  but  plays  the  fool : 

She's  fair,  she's  wondrous  fair, 
But  I  care  not  who  knows  it, 
Ere  I  die  for  love,  I  fairly  will  forego  it. 

Sir  John  Suckling. 

xxxvir. 

WHY  so  pale  and  wan.  fond  lover  ? 

Prithee  why  so  pale  ? 
Will,  when  looking  well  can't  move  her, 

Looking  ill  prevail  ? 

Prithee  why  so  pale  ? 

Why  so  dull  and  mute,  young  sinner  ? 

Prithee  why  so  mute  ? 
Will,  when  speaking  well  can't  win  her, 

Saying  nothing  do't? 

Prithee  why  so  mute  ? 

Quit,  quit,  for  shame,  this  will  not  move, 

This  cannot  take  her  ; 
If  of  herself  she  will  not  love, 

Nothing  can  make  her: 

The  devil  take  her 

Sir  John  Suckling. 

XXXVIII. 

SHALL  I,  wasting  in  despair, 

Die  because  a  woman's  fair  ? 

Or  my  cheeks  make  pale  with  care 

'Cause  another's  rosy  are  ? 

Be  she  fairer  than  the  day 

Or  the  flowery  meads  in  May — 
If  she  be  not  so  to  me 
What  care  I  how  fair  she  be  ? 

Shall  my  foolish  heart  be  pined 
'Cause  I  see  a  woman  kind  ; 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  25 

Or  a  well  disposed  nature 

Joined  with  a  lovely  feature  ? 

Be  she  meeker,  kinder,  than 

Turtle-dove  or  pelican, 

If  she  be  not  so  to  me 

What  care  I  how  kind  she  be  ? 

Shall  a  woman's  virtue  move 

Me  to  perish  for  her  love  ? 

Or  her  merit's  value  known 

Make  me  quite  forget  mine  own  ? 

Be  she  with  that  goodness  blest 

Which  may  gain  her  name  of  Best ; 
If  she  seem  not  such  to  me, 
What  care  I  how  good  she  be  ? 

'Cause  her  fortune  seems  too  high, 

Shall  I  play  the  fool  and  die  ? 

Those  that  bear  a  noble  mind 

Where  they  want  of  riches  find, 

Think  what  with  them  they  would  do 

\Vho  without  them  dare  to  woo: 
And  unless  that  mind  I  see. 
What  care  I  tho'  great  she  be  ? 

Great  or  good,  or  kind  or  fair, 

I  will  ne'er  the  more  despair  ; 

If  she  love  me,  this  believe, 

I  will  die  ere  she  shall  grieve  • 

If  she  slight  me  when  I  woo 

I  can  scorn  and  let  her  go 

For  if  she  be  not  for  me, 
What  care  I  for  whom  she  be  ? 

George  Wither. 


XXXIX. 

THE  NIGHT  PIECE.    To  JULIA. 

HER  eyes  the  glow-worm  lend  thee, 
The  shooting  stars  attend  thee  ; 

And  the  elves  also, 

Whose  little  eyes  glow, 
Like  the  sparks  of  fire,  befriend  thee. 


26  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

No  will-o-the-wisp  mis-light  thee, 
Nor  snake  nor  slow  worm  bite  thee 

But  on,  on  thy  way, 

Not  making  a  stay, 
Since  ghost  there's  none  to  affright  the. 

Let  not  the  dark  thee  cumber ; 

What  tho'  the  moon  do  slumber, 
The  stars  of  the  night 
Will  lend  thee  their  light, 

Like  tapers  clear,  without  number. 

Then  Julia,  let  me  woo  thee, 
Thus,  thus  to  come  unto  thee; 

And  when  I  shall  meet 

Thy  silv'ry  feet, 
My  soul  I'll  pour  unto  thee. 

Robert  Her  rick. 


XL. 
To  THE  VIRGINS  TO  MAKE  MUCH  OF  TIME. 

GATHER  ye  rose-buds  while  ye  may, 

Old  Time  is  still  a-flying  ; 
And  this  same  flower  that  smiles  to-day, 

To-morrow  will  be  dying. 

The  glorious  lamp  of  heaven,  the  Sun, 

The  higher  he's  a-getting, 
The  sooner  will  his  race  be  run, 

And  nearer  he's  to  setting. 

That  age  is  best,  which  is  the  first, 
When  youth  and  blood  are  warmer 

But  being  spent,  the  worse,  and  worst 
Times  still  succeed  the  former. 

Then  be  not  coy,  but  use  your  time, 
And  while  you  may,  go  marry: 

For  having  lost  but  once  your  prime, 
You  may  forever  tarry. 

Robert  Herrick. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 
XLI. 

THE  HEADACHE. 

MY  head  doth  ache, 
O,  Sappho !  take 

Thy  fillet, 
And  bind  the  pain  ! 
Or  bring  some  bane 

To  kill  it. 

But  less  that  part 
Than  my  poor  heart, 

Now  is  sick: 
One  kiss  from  thee 
Will  counsel  be, 

And  physic. 

Robert  fferrtck. 

XLII. 
THE  SIEGE. 

'Tis  now,  since  I  sat  down  before 

That  foolish  fort,  a  heart, 
(Time  strangely  spent !)  a  year,  and  more; 

And  still  I  did  my  part. 

Made  my  approaches,  from  her  hand 

Unto  her  lip  did  rise  ; 
And  did  already  understand 

The  language  of  her  eyes. 

Proceeding  on  with  no  less  art, 

My  tongue  was  engineer; 
I  thought  to  undermine  the  heart 

By  whispering  in  the  ear. 

When  this  did  nothing,  I  brought  down 

Great  canon-oaths,  and  shot 
A  thousand  thousand  to  the  town, 

And  still  it  yielded  not. 


28  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

I  then  resolved  to  starve  the  place, 

.  By  cutting  off  all  kisses, 
Praising  and  gazing  on  her  face, 
And  all  such  little  blisses. 

To  draw  her  out,  and  from  her  strength, 

I  drew  all  batteries  in : 
And  brought  myself  to  lie  at  length, 
As  if  no  siege  had  been. 

When  I  had  done  what  man  could  do, 
And  thought  the  place  my  own, 

The  enemy  lay  quiet  too, 
And  smiled  at  all  was  done. 

I  sent  to  know  from  whence,  and  where, 

These  hopes,  and  this  relief? 
A  spy  informed,  Honour  was  there, 

And  did  command  in  chief. 

March,  march  (quoth  I),  the  word  straight  give, 
Let's  lose  no  time,  but  leave  her : 

That  giant  upon  air  will  live, 
And  hold  it  out  forever. 

To  such  a  place  our  camp  remove 

As  will  no  siege  abide  ; 
I  hate  a  fool  that  starves  her  love, 

Only  to  feed  her  pride. 

Sir  John  Suckling. 


A  RING  PRESENTED  TO  JULIA. 

JULIA,  I  bring 

To  thee  this  ring, 
Made  for  thy  finger  fit ; 

To  shew  by  this, 

That  our  love  is, 
Or  should  be,  like  to  it. 

Close  tho'  it  be, 
The  joint  is  free; 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  29 

So  when  love's  yoke  is  on, 

It  must  not  gall, 

Or  fret  at  all 
With  hard  oppression. 

But  it  must  play 

Still  either  way, 
And  be,  too,  such  a  yoke 

As  not  too  wide, 

To  overslide ; 
Or  be  so  straight  to  choke. 

So  we,  who  bear 

This  beam,  must  rear 
Ourselves  to  such  a  height 

As  that  the  stay 

Of  either  may 
Create  the  burthen  light. 

And  as  this  round 

Is  no  where  found 
To  flaw,  or  else  to  sever; 

So  let  our  love 

As  endless  prove, 
And  pure  as  gold  forever. 

Robert  Herrick, 


XLIV. 

I  PR'YTHEE  send  me  back  my  heart, 

Since  I  cannot  have  thine; 
For  if  from  yours  you  will  not  part, 

Why  then  shouldst  thou  have  mine  ? 

Yet  now  I  think  on't,  let  it  lie  ; 
'  To  find  it,  were  in  vain  : 
For  thou'st  a  thief  in  either  eye 
Would  steal  it  back  again. 

Why  should  two  hearts  in  one  breast  lie, 
And  yet  not  lodge  together  ? 

O  love  !  where  is  thy  sympathy, 
If  thus  our  breasts  you  sever  ? 


30  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

But  love  is  such  a  mystery 

I  cannot  find  it  out; 
For  when  I  think  I'm  best  resolved, 

I  then  am  in  most  doubt. 

Then  farewell  care,  and  farewell  woe, 

I  will  no  longer  pine; 
For  I'll  believe  I  have  her  heart, 

As  much  as  she  has  mine. 

Sir  John  Suckling. 
XLV. 

To  LUCASTA,  ON  GOING  TO  THE  WARS. 

TELL  me  not,  Sweet,  I  am  unkind, 

That  from  the  nunnery 
Of  your  chaste  breast  and  quiet  mind, 

To  war  and  arms  I  fly. 

True,  a  new  mistress  now  I  chase, 

The  first  foe  in  the  field ; 
And  with  a  stronger  faith  embrace 

A  sword,  a  horse,  a  shield. 

Yet  this  inconstancy  is  such 

As  you  too  shall  adore; 
I  could  not  love  thee,  Dear,  so  much, 

Loved  I  not  Honour  more  ! 

Richard  Lovelace. 

XLVI. 
A  BALLAD  UPON  A  WEDDING. 

I  TELL  thee,  Dick,  where  I  have  been, 
Where  I  the  rarest  things  have  seen ; 

O  things  without  compare  ! 
Such  sights  again  cannot  be  found 
In  any  place  on  English  ground, 

Be  it  at  wake,  or  fair. 

At  Charing  Cross,  hard  bv  the  way 
Where  we  (thou  knowstjdo  sell  our  hay, 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

There  is  a  house  with  stairs ; 
And  there  did  I  see  coming  down 
Such  folks  as  are  not  in  our  town, 

Forty  at  least,  in  pairs. 

Amongst  the  rest,  one  pest'lent  fine, 
(His  beard  no  bigger,  tho',  than  mine) 

Walk'd  on  before  the  rest ; 
Our  landlord  looks  like  nothing  to  him: 
The  king,  God  bless  him !  'twould  undo  him, 

Should  he  go  still  so  drest. 

But  wot  you  what  ?    The  youth  was  going 
To  made  an  end  of  all  his  wooing; 

The  parson  for  him  staid  : 
Yet  by  his  leave,  for  all  his  haste, 
He  did  not  so  much  wish  all  past, 

Perchance,  as  did  the  maid. 

The  maid,  and  thereby  hangs  a  tale, 
For  such  a  maid  no  Whitsun-ale 

Could  ever  yet  produce  : 
No  grape  that's  kindly  ripe  could  be 
So  round,  so  soft,  so  plump  as  she, 

Nor  half  so  full  of  juice. 

Her  finger  was  so  small,  the  ring 
Would  not  stay  on  which  they  did  bring; 

It  was  too  wide  a  peck  : 
And  to  say  truth  (for  out  it  must) 
It  look'd  like  the  great  collar  (just) 

About  our  young  colt's  neck. 

Her  feet  beneath  her  petticoat, 
Like  little  mice,  stole  in  and  out, 

As  if  they  fear'd  the  light  : 
But  O !  she  dances  such  a  way  ! 
No  sun  upon  an  Easter-day 

Is  half  so  fine  a  sight. 

Her  cheeks  so  rare  a  white  was  on, 
No  daisy  makes  comparison  ; 

Who  sees  them  is  undone  ; 
For  streaks  of  red  were  mingled  there, 
Such  as  are  on  a  Cath'rine  pear, 

The  side  that's  next  the  sun. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

Her  lips  were  red  ;  and  one  was  thin, 
Compar'd  to  that  was  next  her  chin, 

Some  bee  had  stung  it  newly  ; 
But,  Dick,  her  eyes  so  guard  her  face, 
I  durst  no  more  upon  them  gaze, 

Than  on  the  sun  in  July. 

Her  mouth  so  small,  when  she  does  speak, 
Thou'd'st  swear  her  teeth  her  words  did  break 

That  they  might  passage  get ; 
But  she  so  handled  still  the  matter, 
They  came  as  good  as  ours,  or  bettei, 

And  are  not  spent  a  whit. 

Passion  o'  me  !  how  I  run  on  ! 

There's  that  that  would  be  thought  upon 

I  trow,  besides  the  bride  : 
The  business  of  the  kitchen's  great, 
For  it  is  fit  that  men  should  eat  ; 

Nor  was  it  there  denied. 

Just  in  the  nick  the  cook  knock'd  thrice, 
And  all  the  waiters  in  a  trice 

His  summons  did  obey  ; 
Each  serving  man,  with  dish  in  hand, 
March'd  boldly  up,  like  our  train'd-band. 

Presented,  and  away. 

When  all  the  meat  was  on  the  table, 
What  man  of  knife,  or  teeth,  was  able 

To  stay  to  be  entreated  ? 
And  this  the  very  reason  was, 
Before  the  parson  could  say  grace, 

The  company  were  seated. 

Now  hats  fly  off,  and  youth  carouse ; 
Healths  first  go  round,  and  then  the  house. 

The  bride's  come  thick  and  thick  ; 
And  when  'twas  named  another's  health, 
Perhaps  he  made  it  hers  by  stealth, 

And  who  could  help  it,  Dick  ? 

O'  th'  sudden  up  they  rise  and  dance  ; 
Then  sit  again,  and  sigh,  and  glance  ; 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  -j-j 

Then  dance  again,  and  kiss. 
Thus  several  ways  the  time  did  pass, 
Till  every  woman  wish'd  her  place, 

And  every  man  wish'd  his. 

By  this  time  all  were  stol'n  aside 
To  counsel  and  undress  the  bride  ; 

But  that  he  must  not  know  : 
But  yet  'twas  thought  he  guess'd  her  mind, 
And  did  not  mean  to  stay  behind 

Above  an  hour  or  so. 

Sir  John  Suckling. 

XLVII. 
SONG  AFTER  A  WEDDING. 

THE  danger  is  over,  the  battle  is  past, 
The  nymph  had  her  fears, but  she  ventured  at  last; 
She  tried  the  encounter,  and  when  it  was  done, 
She  smiled  at  her  folly,  and  own'd  she  had  won. 
By  her  eyes  we  discover  the  bride  has  been  pleased, 
Her  blushes  become  her,  her  passion  is  eased  ; 
She  dissembles  her  joy,  and  affects  to  look  down ; 
If  she  sighs,  'tis  for  sorrow  'tis  ended  so  soon. 

Appear  all  ye  virgins,  both  aged  and  young, 
All  you,  who  have  carried  that  burthen  too  long, 
Who  have  lost  precious  time, — and  you  who  are  losing, 
Betray'd  by  your  fears  between  doubting  and  choosing  ; 
Draw  nearer,  and  learn  what  will  settle  your  mind : 
You'll  find  yourselves  happy  when  once  you  are  kind. 
Do  but  wisely  resolve  in  sweet  venture  to  run, 
You'll  feel  the  loss  little  and  much  to  be  won. 

Thomas  Southern*. 

• 

XLVII  r. 

To  MR.  THOMAS  SOUTHERNE, 
On  his  Birthday,  1742. 

RESIGN'D  to  live,  prepared  to  die, 
With  not  one  sin. — but  poetry, 
This  day  Tom's  fair  account  has  run 
(Without  a  blot)  to  eighty-one. 


34 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

Kind  Boyle,  before  his  poet,  lays 

A  table,  with  a  cloth  of  bays  ; 

And  Ireland,  mother  of  sweet  singers, 

Presents  her  harp  still  to  his  fingers. 

The  feast,  his  towering  genius  marks 

In  yonder  wild  goose  and  the  larks  I 

The  mushrooms  show  his  wit  was  sudden ! 

And  for  his  judgment,  lo  a  pudden ! 

Roast  beef,  though  old,  proclaims  him  stout, 

And  grace,  although  a  bard,  devout. 

May  Tom,  whom  Heaven  sent  down  to  raise 

The  price  of  prologues  and  of  plays, 

Be  every  birthday  more  a  winner, 

Digest  his  thirty-thousandth  dinner  ; 

Walk  to  his  grave  without  reproach, 

And  scorn  a  rascal  and  a  coach 

Alexander  Pope. 


LOVE  AND  DEBT. 
A  Fragment. 

THERE'S  one  request  I  make  to  Him 

Who  sits  the  clouds  above  : 
That  I  were  fairly  out  of  debt, 

As  I  am  out  of  love. 

Then  for  to  dance,  to  drink,  and  sing, 

I  should  be  very  willing ; 
I  should  not  owe  one  lass  a  kiss, 

Nor  any  rogue  one  shilling. 

'Tis  only  being  in  love,  or  debt, 

That  robs  us  of  our  rest, 
And  he  that  is  quite  out  of  both, 

Of  all  the  world  is  blest. 

He  sees  the  golden  age,  wherein 
All  things  were  free  and  common : 

He  eats,  he  drinks,  he  takes  his  rest — 
And  fears  nor  man  nor  woman. 

Sir  John  Suckling. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 


35 


L. 

THE  NYMPH'S  REPLY  TO  THE  PASSIONATE  SHEPHERD. 

IF  all  the  world  and  love  were  young, 
And  truth  in  every  shepherd's  tongue, 
Then  pretty  pleasures  might  me  move, 
To  live  with  thee,  and  be  thy  love. 

Time  drives  the  flocks  from  field  to  fold    • 
When  rivers  rage,  and  rocks  grow  cold, 
And  Philomel  becometh  dumb ; 
The  rest  complain  of  cares  to  come. 

The  flowers  do  fade,  and  wanton  fields 
To  wayward  winter  reckoning  yields ; 
A  honey'd  tongue,  a  heart  of  gall, 
Is  fancy's  spring,  but  sorrow's  fall. 

Thy  gown,  thy  shoes,  thy  beds  of  roses, 
Thy  cap,  thy  kirtle,  and  thy  posies  ; 
Soon  break,  soon  wither,  soon  forgotten, 
In  folly  ripe,  in  reason  rotten. 

Thy  belt  of  straw,  and  ivy  buds, 
Thy  coral  clasps,  and  amber  studs, 
All  these  in  me  no  means  can  move, 
To  come  to  thee,  and  be  thy  love. 

But  could  youth  last,  and  love  still  breed, 
Had  joys  no  date,  and  age  no  need; 
Then  these  delights  my  mind  might  move, 
To  live  with  thee,  and  be  thy  love. 

Sir  Walter  Raleigh. 


Li. 

OUT  upon  it,  I  have  loved 
Three  whole  days  together  ; 

And  am  like  to  love  three  more, — 
If  it  prove  fine  weather. 


36  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

Time  shall  moult  away  his  wings, 

Ere  he  shall  discover. 
In  the  whole  wide  world  again 

Such  a  constant  lover. 

But  the  spite  on't  is,  no  praise 

Is  due  at  all  to  me  ; 
Love  with  me  had  made  no  stays 

Had  it  any  been  but  she. 

Had  it  any  been  but  she, 

And  that  very  face, 
There  had  been  at  least,  ere  this, 

A  dozen  in  her  place  ! 

Sir  John  Suckling. 

Lil. 

To  CHLOE,  WHO  WISHED   HERSELF  YOUNG  ENOUGH 
FOR  ME. 

A  Fragment. 

CHLOE,  why  wish  you  that  your  years 

Would  backwards  run,  till  they  meet  mine 

That  perfect  likeness,  which  endears 
Things  unto  things,  might  us  combine  ? 

Our  ages  so  in  date  agree, 

That  twins  do  differ  more  than  we. 

There  are  two  births  :  the  one  when  light 
First  strikes  the  new  awakened  sense  ; 

The  other,  when  two  souls  unite, 

And  we  must  count  our  life  from  thence  : 

When  you  loved  me,  and  I  loved  you, 
Then  both  of  us  were  born  anew. 

Love  then  to  us  did  new  souls  give, 

And  in  those  souls  did  plant  new  powers; 

Since  when  another  life  we  live, 

The  breath  we  breathe  is  his,  not  ours  ; 

Love  makes  those  young,  whom  age  doth  chill, 

And  whom  he  finds  young,  keeps  young  still. 

And  now  since  you  and  I  are  such, 

Tell  me  what's  yours  and  what  is  mine  ? 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

Our  eyes,  our  ears,  our  taste,  smell,  touch, 

Do,  like  our  souls,  in  one  combine  ; 
So  by  this,  I  as  well  may  be 
Too  old  for  you,  as  you  for  me. 

William.  Cartwright. 

LIII. 

THE  MERIT  OF  INCONSTANCY. 
A  Fragment. 

WHY  dost  thou  say  I  am  forsworn, 

Since  thine  I  vow'd  to  be  ? 
Lady,  it  is  already  morn  ; 

It  was  last  night  I  swore  to  thee 

That  fond  impossibility. 

Yet  have  I  loved  thee  well,  and  long; 
A  tedious  twelve-hours'  space  ! 

I  should  all  other  beauties  wrong, 
And  rob  thee  of  a  new  embrace, 
Did  I  still  doat  upon  that  face. 

Richard  Lovelace. 


LOVE  not  me  for  comely  grace, 
For  my  pleasing  eye  or  face, 
Nor  for  any  outward  part, 
No,  nor  for  my  constant  heart, — 
For  these  may  fail,  or  turn  to  ill, 

So  thou  and  I  shall  sever  : 
Keep,  therefore,  a  true  woman's  eye, 
And  love  me  still,  but  know  not  why — 
So  hast  thou  the  same  reason  still 
To  doat  upon  me  ever ! 

Unknown. 

LV. 

To  LUCASTA,  ON  GOING  BEYOND  THE  SEAS. 
A  Fragment. 

IF  to  be  absent  were  to  be 
Away  from  thee ; 


37 


38  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

Or  that  when  I  am  gone 
You  or  I  were  alone  ; 
Then,  my  Lucasta,  might  I  crave 
Pity  from  blustering  wind,  or  swallowing  wave. 

Though  seas  and  land  betwixt  us  both, 

Our  faith  and  troth, 
Like  separated  souls, 
All  time  and  space  controls  : 
Above  the  highest  sphere  we  meet 
Unseen,  unknown,  and  greet  as  angels  greet. 

So  then  we  do  anticipate 

Our  after-fate, 
And  are  alive  i'  the  skies, 
If  thus  our  lips  and  eyes 
Can  speak  like  spirits  unconfined 
In  heaven,  their  earthly  bodies  left  behind. 

Richard  Lovelace. 


LVI. 

WERT  thou  yet  fairer  in  thy  feature, 
Which  lies  not  in  the  power  of  nature  ; 
Or  hadst  thou  in  thine  eyes  more  darts 
Than  ever  Cupid  shot  at  hearts  ; 
Yet  if  they  were  not  thrown  at  me, 
I  would  not  cast  a  thought  on  thee. 

I'd  rather  marry  a  disease, 

Than  court  the  thing  I  could  not  please  : 

She  that  would  cherish  my  desires, 

Must  meet  my  flame  with  equal  fires : 

What  pleasure  is  there  in  a  kiss 

To  him  that  doubts  the  heart's  not  his  ? 

I  love  thee  not  because  thou'rt  fair, 

Softer  than  down,  smoother  than  air ; 

Nor  for  the  Cupids  that  do  lie 

In  either  corner  of  thine  eye  : 

Would'st  thou  then  know  what  it  might  be  ? 

Tis  I  love  thee  'cause  thou  lov'st  me. 

Unknown. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  39 


LVII. 

Tis  not  her  birth,  her  friends,  nor  yet  her  treasure, 
Nor  do  I  covet  her  for  sensual  pleasure, 
Nor  for  that  old  morality, 
Do  I  love  her  'cause  she  loves  me. 
Sure  he  that  loves  his  lady  'cause  she's  fair, 
Delights  his  eye,  so  loves  himself,  not  her. 
Something  there  is  moves  me  to  love,  and  I 
Do  know  I  love,  but  know  not  how,  nor  why. 

Alexander  Brome. 


LVIII. 

THE  PEREMPTORY  LOVER. 

'TlS  not  your  beauty  nor  your  wit 

That  can  my  heart  obtain, 
For  they  could  never  conquer  yet 

Either  my  breast  or  brain ; 
For  if  you'll  not  prove  kind  to  me, 

And  true  as  heretofore, 
Henceforth  I'll  scorn  your  slave  to  be, 

And  doat  on  you  no  more. 

Think  not  my  fancy  to  o'ercome 

By  proving  thus  unkind  ; 
No  smoothed  sigh,  nor  smiling  frown, 

Can  satisfy  my  mind. 
Pray  let  Platonics  play  such  pranks, 

Such  follies  I  deride  ; 
For  love  at  least  I  will  have  thanks, — 

And  something  else  beside  ! 

Then  open-hearted  be  with  me, 

As  I  shall  be  with  you, 
And  let  our  actions  be  as  free 

As  virtue  will  allow. 
If  you'll  prove  loving,  I'll  prove  kind, 

If  true,  I'll  constant  be — 
If  Fortune  chance  to  change  your  mind, 
I'll  turn  as  soon  as  ye. 


40  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

Since  our  affections,  well  ye  know, 

In  equal  terms  do  stand, 
'Tis  in  your  power  to  love  or  no 

Mine's  likewise  in  my  hand. 
Dispense  with  your  austerity, 

Inconstancy  abhor, 
Or,  by  great  Cupid's  deity, 

I'll  never  love  you  more. 

Unknown. 

LIX. 

I  PR'YTHEE  leave  this  peevish  fashion, 
Don't  desire  to  be  high-prized, 

Love's  a  princely,  noble  passion, 
And  doth  scorn  to  be  despised. 

Tho'  we  say  you're  fair,  you  know 

We  your  beauty  do  bestow, — 

For  our  fancy  makes  you  so. 

Don't  be  proud  'cause  we  adore  you, 

We  do't  only  for  our  pleasure ; 
And  those  parts  in  which  you  glory, 
We,  by  fancy,  weigh  and  measure. 
When  for  Deities  you  go, 
For  Angels,  or  for  Queens,  pray  know 
'Tis  our  own  fancy  makes  you  so  1 

Don't  suppose  your  majesty 

By  tyranny's  best  signified, 
And  your  angelic  natures  be 

Distinguished  only  by  your  pride. 
Tyrants  make  subjects  rebels  grow, 
And  pride  makes  angels  devils  below, 
And  your  pride  may  make  you  so ! 

Alexander  Brome. 

LX. 

UNGRATEFUL  BEAUTY  THREATENED. 

KNOW  Celia  (since  thou  art  so  proud) 
'Twas  I  that  gave  thee  thy  renown : 

Thou  hadst,  in  the  forgotten  crowd 
Of  common  beauties,  lived  unknown 

Had  not  my  verse  exhaled  thy  name, 

And  with  it  impt  the  wings  of  Fame. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  41 

That  killing  power  is  none  of  thine  ! 

I  gave  it  to  thy  voice  and  eyes  : 
Thy  sweets,  thy  graces — '•all  are  mine  : 

Thou  art  my  star — shinest  in  my  skies; 
Then  dart  not  from  thy  borrow'd  sphere 
Lightning  on  him  that  fix'd  thee  there. 

Tempt  me  with  such  affrights  no  more, 

Lest  what  I  made  I  uncreate  ; 
Let  fools  thy  mystic  forms  adore, 

I'll  know  thee  in  thy  mortal  state. 
Wise  poets,  that  wrap  Truth  in  tales, 
Know  her  themselves  thro'  all  her  veils. 

Thomas  Carew. 


To  DIANEME. 

SWEET,  be  not  proud  of  those  two  eyes 
Which,  star-like,  sparkle  in  their  skies  ; 
Nor  be  you  proud,  that  you  can  see 
All  hearts  your  captives, — yours  yet  free  : 
Be  you  not  proud  of  that  rich  hair, 
Which  wantons  with  the  love-sick  air 
Whenas  that  ruby  which  you  wear, 
Sunk  from  the  tip  of  your  soft  ear, 
Will  last  to  be  a  precious  stone 
When  all  your  world  of  beauty's  gone. 

Robert  Herrick. 


LXII. 

A  FRAGMENT. 

LOVE  in  her  sunny  eyes  does  basking  play ; 

Love  walks  the  pleasant  mazes  of  her  hair  ; 
Love  does  on  both  her  lips  for  ever  stray, 

And  sows  and  reaps  a  thousand  kisses  there  : 
In  all  her  outward  parts  Love's  always  seen  ; 

But  oh  !  he  never  went  within. 

Abraham  Cowley. 


42  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 


To  CARNATIONS. 

STAY  while  ye  will,  or  go, 

And  leave  no  scent  behind  ye  : 
Yet  trust  me,  I  shall  know 

The  place  where  I  may  find  ye. 

Within  my  Lucia's  cheek, 

(Whose  livery  ye  wear) 
Play  ye  at  hide  or  seek, 

I'm  sure  to  find  ye  there. 

Robert  Herrick.  • 

LXIV. 

THE  PRESENT  MOMENT. 

ALL  my  past  life  is  mine  no  more, 

The  flying  hours  are  gone  ; 
Like  transitory  dreams  given  o'er, 
Whose  images  are  kept  in  store 

By  memory  alone. 

The  time  that  is  to  come,  is  not ; 

How,  then,  can  it  be  mine  ? 
The  present  moment's  all  my  lot, 
And  that,  as  fast  as  it  is  got, 
Phillis,  is  only  thine. 

Then  talk  not  of  inconstancy, 

False  hearts,  and  broken  vows  ; 
If  I,  by  miracle,  can  be 
This  live-long  minute  true  to  thee, 

Tis  all  that  heaven  allows  ! 

John  Wilmot,  Earl  of  Rochester. 

LXV. 

THE  VICTOR  AND  THE  VANQUISHED. 

WHILE  on  those  lovely  looks  I  gaze, 

And  see  a  wretch  pursuing, 
In  raptures  of  a  bless'd  amaze, 

His  pleasing,  happy  ruin; 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

'Tis  not  for  pity  that  I  move  ; — 

His  fate  is  too  aspiring, 
Whose  heart,  broke  with  a  load  of  love, 

Dies,  wishing  and  admiring. 

But  if  this  murder  you'd  forego, 

Your  slave  from  death  removing  I 
Let  me  your  art  of  charming  know, 

Or  learn  you  mine  of  loving. 
But,  whether  life  or  death  betide, 

In  love  'tis  equal  measure  ; 
The  victor  lives  with  empty  pride, 

The  vanquish'd  dies  with  pleasure. 

yohn  Wtlmot,  Earl  of  Rochester. 

LXVI. 

PHILLIS,  men  say  that  all  my  vows 

Are  to  thy  fortune  paid ; 
Alas  !  my  heart  he  little  knows, 

Who  thinks  my  love  a  trade. 

Were  I  of  all  these  woods  the  lord, 

One  berry  from  thy  hand 
More  real  pleasure  would  afford 

Than  all  my  large  command. 

My  humble  love  has  learn'd  to  live 

On  what  the  nicest  maid, 
Without  a  conscious  blush,  may  give 

Beneath  the  myrtle  shade. 

Sir  Charles  Sedley. 

LXVI  I. 

'Tis  not  your  saying  that  you  love 

Can  ease  me  of  my  smart ; 
Your  actions  must  your  words  approve, 

Or  else  you  break  my  heart. 

In  vain  you  bid  my  passions  cease, 
And  ease  my  troubled  breast ; 

Your  love  alone  must  give  me  peace- 
Restore  my  wonted  rest. 


43 


44 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

But  if  I  fail  your  heart  to  move, 

Or  'tis  not  yours  to  give, 
I  cannot,  will  not  cease  to  love, 

But  I  will  cease  to  live. 

Aphra  Behn. 

LXVIII. 

AH,  Chloris !  could  I  now  but  sit 

As  unconcern'd  as  when 
Your  infant  beauty  could  beget 

No  happiness  or  pain! 
When  I  this  dawning  did  admire, 

And  praised  the  coming  day, 
I  little  thought  the  rising  fire 

Would  take  my  rest  away. 

Your  charms  in  harmless  childhood  lay 

Like  metals  in  a  mine; 
Age  from  no  face  takes  more  away 

Than  youth  conceal'd  in  thine. 
But  as  your  charms  insensibly 

To  their  perfection  prest, 
So  love  as  unperceived  did  fly, 

And  center'd  in  my  breast. 

My  passion  with  your  beauty  grew, 

While  Cupid  at  my  heart, 
Still  as  his  mother  favor'd  you, 

Threw  a  new  flaming  dart. 
Each  gloried  in  their  wanton  part; 

To  make  a  lover,  he 
Employ'd  the  utmost  of  his  art — 

To  make  a  beauty,  she. 

Sir  Charles  Sedley. 

LXIX. 

YE  happy  swains,  whose  hearts  are  free 

From  Love's  imperial  chain, 
Take  warning,  and  be  taught  by  me, 

T'  avoid  th'  enchanting  pain. 
Fatal  the  wolves  to  trembling  flocks — 

Fierce  winds  to  blossoms  prove — 
To  careless  seamen,  hidden  rocks — 

To  human  quiet,  love. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  ^ 

Then  fly  the  Fair,  if  bliss  you  prize  ; 

The  snake's  beneath  the  flower: 
Who  ever  gazed  on  beauteous  eyes, 

And  tasted  quiet  more  ? 
How  faithless  is  the  lover's  joy ! 

How  constant  is  his  care  ! 
The  kind  with  falsehood  do  destroy, 

The  cruel  with  despair. 

Sir  George  Etherege. 
LXX. 

To  CELIA. 

NOT,  Celia,  that  I  juster  am 

Or  better  than  the  rest ; 
For  I  would  change  each  hour,  like  them, 

Were  not  my  heart  at  rest. 

But  I  am  tied  to  very  thee 

By  every  thought  I  have: 
Thy  face  I  only  care  to  see, 

Thy  heart  I  only  crave. 

All  that  in  woman  is  adored 

In  thy  dear  self  I  find — 
For  the  whole  sex  can  but  afford 

The  handsome  and  the  kind. 

Why  then  should  I  seek  further  store, 

And  still  make  love  anew? 
When  change  itself  can  give  no  more, 

Tis  easy  to  be  true. 

Sir  Charles  Sedley* 
LXXT. 

CARPE  DIEM. 

IT  is  not,  Celia,  in  your  power 

To  say  how  long  our  love  will  last; 
It  may  be  we,  within  this  hour, 

May  lose  those  joys  we  now  do  taste: 
The  blessed,  who  immortal  be, 
From  change  of  love  are  only  free. 


46  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

Then,  since  we  mortal  lovers  are, 
Ask  not  how  long  our  love  will  last; 

But,  while  it  does,  let  us  take  care 
Each  minute  be  with  pleasure  past. 

Were  it  not  madness  to  deny 

To  live,  because  we're  sure  to  die  ? 

Fear  not,  though  love  and  beauty  fail, 
My  reason  shall  my  heart  direct: 

Your  kindness  now  shall  then  prevail, 
And  passion  turn  into  respect. 

Celia,  at  worst,  you'll  in  the  end 

But  change  a  lover  for  a  friend. 

Sir  George  Etherege. 

LXXII. 

OF  ENGLISH  VERSE. 

POETS  may  boast,  as  safely  vain, 
Their  works  shall  with  the  world  remain; 
Both  bound  together,  live  or  die, 
The  verses  and  the  prophecy. 

But  who  can  hope  his  line  should  long 
Last  in  a  daily  changing  tongue  ? 
While  they  are  new,  envy  prevails; 
And,  as  that  dies,  our  language  fails. 

When  architects  have  done  their  part, 
The  matter  may  betray  their  art : 
Time,  if  we  use  ill-chosen  stone, 
Soon  brings  a  well-built  palace  down. 

Poets,  that  lasting  marble  seek, 
Must  carve  in  Latin  or  in  Greek  : 
We  write  in  sand :  our  language  grows, 
And,  like  the  tide,  our  work  o'erflows. 

Chaucer  his  sense  can  only  boast, — 
The  glory  of  his  numbers  lost  1 
Years  have  defaced  his  matchless  strain, — 
And  yet  he  did  not  sing  in  vain  ! 

The  beauties  which  adorn'd  that  age, 
The  shining  subjects  of  his  page, 
Hoping  they  should  immortal  prove, 
Rewarded  with  success  his  love. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

This  was  the  generous  poet's  scope  ; 
And  all  an  English  pen  can  hope  ; 
To  make  the  fair  approve  his  flame, 
That  can  so  far  extend  their  name. 

Verse,  thus  design'd,  has  no  ill  fate. 
If  it  arrive  but  at  the  date 
Of  fading  beauty ;  if  it  prove 
But  as  long-lived  as  present  love. 

Edmund  Waller. 


THE    STORY    OF   PHCEBUS    AND    DAPHNE 
APPLIED. 

THYRSIS,  a  youth  of  the  inspired  train, 
Fair  Sachanssa  loved,  but  loved  in  vain  : 
Like  Phoebus  sung  the  no  less  amorous  boy  ; 
Like  Daphne  she,  as  lovely,  and  as  coy ! 
With  numbers  he  the  flying  nymph  pursues  ; 
With  numbers,  such  as  Phcebus'  self  might  use ! 
Such  is  the  chase,  when  Love  and  Fancy  leads, 
O'er  craggy  mountains,  and  thro'  flowery  meads  ; 
Invoked  to  testify  the  lover's  care, 
Or  form  some  image  of  his  cruel  fair. 
Urged  with  his  fury,  like  a  wounded  deer, 
O'er  these  he  fled ;  and  now  approaching  near, 
Had  reached  the  nymph  with  his  harmonious  lay, 
Whom  all  his  charms  could  not  incline  to  stay. 
Yet,  what  he  sung  in  his  immortal  strain, 
Though  unsuccessful,  was  not  sung  in  vain : 
All,  but  the  nymph  who  should  redress  his  wrong, 
Attend  his  passion,  and  approve  his  song, 
Like  Phcebus  thus,  acquiring  unsought  praise, 
He  catch'd  at  love,  and  fill'd  his  arms  with  bays. 

Edmund  Waller. 


PHYLLIS,  for  shame  !  let  us  improve, 

A  thousand  different  ways, 
These  few  short  moments  snatch'd  by  love 

From  many  tedious  days. 


47 


43  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

If  you  want  courage  to  despise 
The  censure  of  the  grave, 

Tho'  Love's  a  tyrant  in  your  eyes, 
Your  heart  is'  but  a  slave. 

My  love  is  full  of  noble  pride  ; 

Nor  can  it  e'er  submit 
To  let  that  fop,  Discretion,  ride 

In  triumph  over  it. 

False  friends  I  have,  as  well  as  you, 

Who  daily  counsel  me 
Fame  and  Ambition  to  pursue, 

And  leave  off  loving  thee. 

But  when  the  least  regard  I  show 
To  fools  who  thus  advise, 

May  I  be  dull  enough  to  grow 
Most  miserably  wise ! 


Charles  Sackville,  Earl  of  Dorset. 


To   CHLORIS   SINGING    A    SONG    OF    His 
COMPOSING. 

CHLORIS  !  yourself  you  so  excel, 

When  you  vouchsafe  to  breathe  my  thought, 
That,  like  a  spirit,  with  this  spell 

Of  my  own  teaching,  I  am  caught, 

That  eagle's  fate  and  mine  are  one, 

Which,  on  the  shaft  that  made  him  die, 

Espied  a  feather  of  his  own, 

Wherewith  he  wont  to  soar  so  high. 

Had  Echo,  with  so  sweet  a  grace, 
Narcissus'  loud  complaints  return'd, 

Not  for  reflection  of  his  face, 

But  of  his  voice,  the  boy  had  burn'd. 

Edmund  Waller 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  49 

LXXVI. 

DORINDO'S  sparkling  wit  and  eyes. 

United,  cast  too  fierce  a  light, 
Which  blazes  high,  but  quickly  dies  ; 

Pains  not  the  heart,  but  hurts  the  sight. 

Love  is  a  calmer,  gentler  joy  : 

Smooth  are  his  looks,  and  soft  his  pace; 

Her  Cupid  is  a  blackguard  boy, 
That  runs  his  link  full  in  your  face. 

Charles  Sackville,  Earl  of  Dorset. 

LXXVI  I. 

WRITTEN  AT  SEA,  THE  FIRST  DUTCH  WAR,  THE  NIGHT 
BEFORE  AN  ENGAGEMENT. 

To  all  you  ladies  now  on  land, 

We  men  at  sea  indite ; 
But  first  would  have  you  understand 

How  hard  it  is  to  write : 
The  muses  now,  and  Neptune  too, 
We  must  implore  to  write  to  you. 

With  a  fa  la,  la,  la,  la. 

For  tho'  the  muses  should  prove  kind, 

And  fill  our  empty  brain  ; 
Yet  if  rough  Neptune  rouse  the  wind, 

To  wave  the  azure  main, 
Our  paper,  pen,  and  ink,  and  we 
Roll  up  and  down  our  ships  at  sea. 

Then,  if  we  write  not  by  each  post, 

Think  not  we  are  unkind  ; 
Nor  yet  conclude  our  ships  are  lost 

By  Dutchmen  or  by  wind  ; 
Our  tears  we'll  send  a  speedier  way: 
The  tide  shall  bring  them  twice  a  day. 


The  king  with  wonder  and  surprise, 
Will  swear  the  seas  grow  bold ; 


r0  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

Because  the  tides  will  higher  rise 

Than  e'er  they  did  of  old  : 
But  let  him  know  it  is  our  tears 
Bring  floods  of  grief  to  Whitehall-stairs. 

Should  foggy  Opdam  chance  to  know 

Our  sad  and  dismal  story, 
The  Dutch  would  scorn  so  weak  a  foe, 

And  quit  their  fort  at  Goree ; 
For  what  resistance  can  they  find 
From  men  who've  left  their  hearts  behind  ? 

Let  wind  and  weather  do  its  worst, 

Be  you  to  us  but  kind ; 
Let  Dutchmen  vapour,  Spaniards  curse, 

No  sorrow  we  shall  find  : 
'Tis  then  no  matter  how  things  go, 
Or  who's  our  friend,  or  who's  our  foe. 

To  pass  our  tedious  hours  away, 

We  throw  a  merry  main  : 
Or  else  at  serious  ombre  play  ; 

But  why  should  we  in  vain 
Each  other's  ruin  thus  pursue  ? 
We  were  undone  when  we  left  you. 

But  now  our  fears  tempestuous  grow, 

And  cast  our  hopes  away  ; 
Whilst  you,  regardless  of  our  wo, 

Sit  careless  at  a  play  : 
Perhaps  permit  some  happier  man 

To  kiss  your  hand,  or  flirt  your  fan. 

When  any  mournful  tune  you  hear, 

That  dies  in  every  note,' 
As  if  it  sigh'd  with  each  man's  care 

For  being  so  remote  ; 
Think  then  how  often  love  we've  made 
To  you,  when  all  those  tunes  were  play'd. 

In  justice,  you  cannot  refuse 

To  think  of  our  distress, 
When  we  for  hopes  of  honor  lose 

Our  certain  happiness  ; 
All  these  designs  are  but  to  prove 
Ourselves  more  worthy  of  your  love. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  $i 

And  now  we've  told  you  all  our  loves, 

And  likewise  all  our  fears, 
In  hopes  this  declaration  moves 

Some  pity  for  our  tears  ; 
Let's  hear  of  no  inconstancy, 
We  have  too  much  of  that  at  sea. 
With  a  fa  la,  la,  la,  la. 

Charles  Sackuille,  Earl  of  Dorset. 

Lxxvm. 
To  ALTHEA,  FROM  PRISOH. 

WHEN  Love  with  unconfmed  wings 

Hovers  within  my  gates, 
And  my  divine  Althea  brings 

To  whisper  at  the  grates ; 
When  I  lie  tangled  in  her  hair 

And  fettered  to  her  eye, 
The  birds  that  wanton  in  the  air 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

\Vhen  flowing  cups  run  swiftly  round 

With  no  allaying  Thames, 
Our  careless  heads  with  roses  crown' d, 

Our  hearts  with  loyal  flames  ; 
When  thirsty  grief  in  wine  we  steep, 

When  healths  and  draughts  go  free—- 
Fishes that  tipple  in  the  deep 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

When  linnet-like  confined,  I 

With  shriller  throat  shall  sing 
The  sweetness,  mercy,  majesty 

And  glories  of  my  king; 
When  I  shall  voice  aloud  how  good 

He  is,  how  great  should  be, 
Enlarged  winds  that  curl  the  flood, 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

Stone  walls  do  not  a  prison  make, 

Nor  iron  bars  a  cage ; 
Minds  innocent  and  quiet  take 

That  for  a  hermitage  : 


52 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

If  I  have  freedom  in  my  love, 

And  in  my  soul  am  free, 
Angels  alone,  that  soar  above, 

Enjoy  such  liberty. 

Richard  Lovelace. 

LXXIX. 

LOYALTY  CONFINED. 

( Written  when  a  prisoner  in  the  Tower,  during  CromwelPi 
usurpation.) 

BEAT  on,  proud  billows  ;  Boreas,  blow ; 

Swell,  curled  waves,  high  as  Jove's  roof  ; 
Your  incivility  doth  plainly  show 

That  innocence  is  tempest  proof  ; 
Though  surly  Nereus  frown,  my  thoughts  are  calm  ; 
Then  strike,  Affliction,  for  thy  wounds  are  balm. 

That  which  the  world  miscalls  a  jail, 

A  private  closet  is  to  me  ; 
Whilst  a  good  conscience  is  my  bail, 
And  innocence  my  liberty: 
Locks,  bars,  and  solitude,  together  met, 
Make  me  no  prisoner,  but  an  anchoret. 

Here  sin,  for  want  of  food,  must  starve 
Where  tempting  objects  are  not  seen; 

And  these  strong  walls  do  only  serve 
To  keep  rogues  out,  not  keep  me  in. 

Malice  is  now  grown  charitable,  sure : 

I'm  not  committed,  but  I'm  kept  secure. 

And  whilst  I  wish  to  be  retired, 

Into  this  private  room  I'm  turn'd; 
As  if  their  wisdom  had  conspired 

The  salamander  should  be  burn'd. 
Or,  like  those  sophists  who  would  drown  a  fish, 
I  am  condemned  to  suffer  what  I  wish. 

The  cynic  hugs  his  poverty, 

The  pelican  her  wilderness; 
And  'tis  the  Indian's  pride  to  be 

Naked  on  frozen  Caucasus. 
Contentment  feels  no  smart  ;  stoics,  we  see, 
Make  torments  easy  by  their  apathy. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  53 

I'm  in  the  cabinet  lock'd  up, 

Like  some  high-prized  margarite  ; 
Or  like  the  great  Mogul  or  Pope, 

I'm  cloister'd  up  from  public  sight. 
Retiredness  is  a  part  of  majesty, 
And  thus,  proud  Sultan!  I  am  great  as  thee. 

These  manacles  upon  my  arm 

I,  as  my  mistress'  favors,  wear  ; 
And  for  to  keep  my  ankles  warm, 

I  have  some  iron  shackles  there. 
These  walls  are  but  my  garrison  ;  this  cell, 
Which  men  call  jail,  doth  prove  my  citadel, 

So  he  that  struck  at  Jason's  life, 

Thinking  to  make  his  purpose  sure, 
By  a  malicious  friendly  knife 

Did  only  wound  him  to  his  cure  : 
Malice,  we  see,  wants  wit ;  for  what  is  meant 
Mischief,  oft  times  proves  favour  by  th'  event. 

Altho'  I  cannot  see  my  king — 

Neither  in  person — nor  in  coin  ! — 
Yet  contemplation  is  a  thing 

That  renders  that  I  have  not,  mine. 
My  king  from  me  no  adamant  can  part, 
Whom  I  do  wear  engraven  in  my  heart. 

Have  you  not  heard  the  nightingale, 

A  prisoner  close  kept  in  a  cage, 
How  she  doth  chaunt  her  wonted  tale, 

In  that  her  narrow  hermitage  ? 
Even  then  her  melody  doth  plainly  prove 
Her  bars  are  trees,  her  cage  a  pleasant  grove. 

My  soul  is  free  as  ambient  air, 

Which  doth  my  outward  parts  include  ; 

Whilst  loyal  thoughts  do  still  repair 
T'  accompany  my  solitude. 

What  tho'  they  do  with  chains  my  body  bind, 

My  king  alone  can  captivate  my  mind. 

I  am  that  bird  whom  they  combine 

Thus  to  deprive  of  liberty ; 
And  tho'  they  may  my  corpse  confine, 
Yet,  maugre  that,  my  soul  is  free  : 


54 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 


Though  I'm  mew'd  up,  yet  I  can  chirp  and  sing, 
Disgrace  to  rebels,  glory  to  my  king. 

Arthur  Lord  Capel. 

LXXX. 

THE  MEANS  TO  ATTAIN  HAPPY  LIFE. 

MARTIAL,  the  things  that  do  attain 

The  happy  life  be  these,  I  find — 
The  riches  left,  not  got  with  pain  ; 

The  fruitful  ground,  the  quiet  mind, 

The  equal  friend  ;  no  grudge,  no  strife ; 

No  charge  of  rule,  nor  governance ; 
Without  disease,  the  healthful  life  ; 

The  household  of  continuance  ; 

The  mean  diet,  no  delicate  fare  ; 

True  wisdom  join'd  with  simpleness  ; 
The  night  discharged  of  all  care, 

Where  wine  the  wit  may  not  oppress ; 

The  faithful  wife,  without  debate  ; 

Such  sleep  as  may  beguile  the  night ; 
Contented  with  thine  own  estate, 

Nor  wish  for  death,  nor  fear  his  might. 

Earl  of  Surrey. 

LXXX  I. 

CONTENT. 

SWEET  are  the  thoughts  that  savour  of  content: 
The  quiet  mind  is  richer  than  a  crown ; 

Sweet  are  the  nights  in  careless  slumber  spent — 
The  poor  estate  scorns  Fortune's  angry  frown  : 

Such  sweet  content,  such  minds,  such  sleep,  such  bliss, 

Beggars  enjoy,  when  princes  oft  do  miss. 

The  homely  house  that  harbours  quiet  rest, 
The  cottage  that  affords  no  pride  or  care, 

The  mean  that  'grees  with  country  music  best, 
The  sweet  consort  of  mirth  and  music's  fare. 

Obscured  life  sets  down  a  type  of  bliss ; 

A  mind  content  both  crown  and  kingdom  is. 

Robert  Greene. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 
LXXXII. 

THE  WISH. 

WELL  then  ;  I  now  do  plainly  see 
This  busy  world  and  I  shall  ne'er  agree; 
The  very  honey  of  all  earthly  joy 

Does  of  all  meats  the  soonest  cloy  ; 

And  they,  methinks,  deserve  my  pity, 
Who  for  it  can  endure  the  stings, 
The  crowd,  and  buz,  and  murmurings 

Of  this  great  hive,  the  city. 

Ah,  yet,  ere  I  descend  to  th*  grave, 
May  I  a  small  house  and  large  garden  have  ! 
And  a  few  friends,  and  many  books ;  both  true, 

Both  wise,  and  both  delightful  too! 

And,  since  love  ne'er  will  from  me  flee, 
A  mistress  moderately  fair, 
And  good  as  guardian-angels  are, 

Only  beloved,  and  loving  me  ! 

O,  fountains  !  when  in  you  shall  I 
Myself,  eased  of  unpeaceful  thoughts,  espy  ? 
O  fields  !  O  woods  !  when,  when  shall  I  be  made 

The  happy  tenant  of  your  shade  ? 

Here's  the  spring-head  of  Pleasure's  flood ; 
Where  all  the  riches  lie,  that  she 

Has  coin'd  and  stamp'd  for  good. 

Pride  and  ambition  here 
Only  in  far-fetch'd  metaphors  appear  ; 
Here  nought  but  winds  can  hurtful  murmurs  scatter 

And  nought  but  Echo  flatter. 

The  gods,  when  they  descended,  hither 
From  Heaven  did  always  choose  their  way  ; 
And  therefore  we  may  boldly  say 

That  'tis  the  way  too  thither. 

How  happy  here  should  I, 
And  one  dear  She,  live,  and  embracing  die ! 
She,  who  is  all  the  world,  and  can  exclude 

In  deserts  solitude. 


55 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

I  should  have  then  this  only  fear — 
Lest  men,  when  they  my  pleasures  see, 
Should  hither  throng  to  live  like  me, 

And  so  make  a  city  here. 

Abraham  Ccnvley. 


LXXXIII. 
THE  ANGLER'S  WISH. 

I  IN  these  flowery  meads  would  be  ; 

These  crystal  streams  should  solace  me ; 

To  whose  harmonious  bubbling  noise, 

I  with  my  angle  would  rejoice  ; 

Sit  here,  and  see  the  turtle  dove 
Court  his  chaste  mate  to  acts  of  love  ; 

Or  on  that  bank  feel  the  west  wind 
Breathe  health  and  plenty  ;  please  my  mind 
To  see  sweet  dew-drops  kiss  these  flowers, 
And  then  wash'd  off  by  April  showers; 

Here,  hear  my  Kenna  sing  a  song ; 

There,  see  a  blackbird  feed  her  young, 

Or,  a  laverock  build  her  nest  : 

Here,  give  my  weary  spirits  rest, 

And  raise  my  low-pitch'd  thoughts  above 

Earth,  or  what  poor  mortals  love  : 

Thus,  free  from  lawsuits  and  the  noise 
Of  princes'  courts,  I  would  rejoice. 

Or,  with  my  Bryan  and  a  book, 
Loiter  long  days  near  Shawford  brook  ; 
There  sit  with  him,  and  eat  my  meat, 
There  see  the  sun  both  rise  and  set, 
There  bid  good  morning  to  each  day, 
There  meditate  my  time  away, 

And  angle  on  :  and  beg  to  have 

A  quiet  passage  to  a  welcome  grave. 

Isaak  Walton 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  « 

LXXXIV. 

THE  CONTENTED  MAN. 

HAPPY  the  man  whose  wish  and  care 

A  few  paternal  acres  bound, 
Content  to  breathe  his  native  air 

In  his  own  ground. 

Whose  herds  with  milk,  whose  fields  with  bread, 

Whose  flocks  supply  him  with  attire  ; 
Whose  trees  in  summer  yield  him  shade, 

In  winter,  fire. 

Blest,  who  can  unconcern'dly  find 

Hours,  days,  and  years  slide  soft  away 
In  health  of  body,  peace  of  mind, 

Quiet  by  day, 

Sound  sleep  by  night;  study  and  ease 

Together  mix'd,  sweet  recreation 
And  innocence,  which  most  doth  please 

With  meditation. 

Thus  let  me  live  unseen,  unknown ; 

Thus,  unlamented,  let  me  die ; 
Steal  from  the  world,  and  not  a  stone 

Tell  where  I  lie. 

Alexander  Pope. 
LXXXV. 

PHILLIS    UNWILLING. 

A  CHOIR  of  bright  beauties  in  spring  did  appear, 

To  choose  a  May-lady  to  govern  the  year ; 

All  the  nymphs  were  in  white,  and  the  shepherds  in  green, 

The  garland  was  given,  and  Phillis  was  queen: 

But  Phillis  refused  it,  and  sighing  did  say. 

I'll  not  wear  a  garland  while  Pan  is  away. 

While  Pan  and  fair  Syrinx  are  fled  from  our  shore, 
The  graces  are  banish'd,  and  love  is  no  more  : 
The  soft  god  of  pleasure,  that  wann'd  our  desires, 
Has  broken  his  bow,  and  extinguished  his  fires; 
And  vows  that  himself  and  his  mother  will  mourn 
Till  Pan  and  fair  Syrinx  in  triumph  return. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

Forbear  your  addresses,  and  court  us  no  more, 
For  we  will  perform  what  the  deity  swore  : 
But  if  you  dare  think  of  deserving  our  charms, 
Away  with  your  sheep-hooks,  and  take  to  your  arms ; 
The  laurels  and  myrtles  your  brows  shall  adorn, 
When  Pan  and  his  son,  and  fair  Syrinx,  return. 

John  Dryden. 

LXXXVI. 

TELL  me  no  more  I  am  deceived, 

That  Chloe's  false  and  common; 
I  always  knew  (at  least  believed) 

She  was  a  very  woman  : 
As  such  I  liked,  as  such  caress'd, 
She  still  was  constant  when  possess'd 

She  could  do  more  for  no  man. 

But  O  !  her  thoughts  on  others  ran  ; 

And  that  you  think  a  hard  thing  ! 
Perhaps  she  fancied  you  the  man  ; 

And  what  care  I  one  farthing? 
You  think  she's  false  I'm  sure  she's  kind, 
I  take  her  face,  and  you  her  mind, 

— Who  has  the  better  bargain  ? 

William  Congreve. 


FORTUNE. 
A  Fragment. 

FORTUNE,  that,  with  malicious  joy, 
Does  man  her  slave  oppress, 

Proud  of  her  office  to  destroy, 
Is  seldom  pleased  to  bless  : 

Still  various  and  unconstant  still, 
But  with  an  inclination  to  be  ill, 

Promotes,  degrades,  delights  in  strife, 

And  makes  a  lottery  of  life. 
I  can  enjoy  her  while  she's  kind ; 
But  when  she  dances  in  the  wind, 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

And  shakes  her  wings  and  will  not  stay, 
I  puff  the  prostitute  away : 

The  little  or  the  much  she  gave,  is  quietly  resign'd  : 
Content  with  poverty,  my  soul  I  arm  ; 
And  virtue,  tho'  in  rags,  will  keep  me  warm. 

John   Dryden. 


FAIR  Amoret  is  gone  astray, 

Pursue,  and  seek  her,  every  lover; 

I'll  tell  the  signs  by  which  you  may 
The  wandering  shepherdess  discover. 

Coquet  and  coy  at  once  her  air, 

Both  studied,  tho'  both  seem  neglected  ; 

Careless  she  is,  with  artful  care, 
Affecting  to  seem  unaffected. 

With  skill  her  eyes  dart  every  glance, 

Yet  change  so  soon  you'd  ne'er  suspect  them  -, 

For  she'd  persuade  they  wound  by  chance, 
Though  certain  aim  and  art  direct  them. 

She  likes  herself,  yet  others  hates 

For  that  which  in  herself  she  prizes  ; 

And,  while  she  laughs  at  them,  forgets 
She  is  the  thing  that  she  despises. 

William  Congreve. 


LXXXIX. 

FABLE,  RELATED  BY  A  BEAU  TO 


A  BAND,  a  Bob-wig  and  a  Feather, 
Attack'd  a  lady's  heart  together. 
The  Band,  in  a  most  learned  plea, 
Made  up  of  deep  philosophy, 
Told  her,  if  she  would  please  to  wed 
A  reverend  beard,  and  take,  instead 

Of  vigorous  youth, 

Old  solemn  truth, 
With  books  and  morals,  into  bed, 
How  happy  she  would  be. 


S3 


6}  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

The  Bob,  he  talked  of  management, 
What  wondrous  blessings  heaven  sent 
On  care,  and  pains,  and  industry : 
And  truly  he  must  be  so  free 
To  own  he  thought  your  airy  beaux, 
With  powder'd  wigs,  and  dancii  g  shoes, 
Were  good  for  nothing  (mend  his  soul !) 
But  prate,  and  talk,  and  play  the  fool. 

He  said  'twas  wealth  gave  joy  and  mirth, 

And  that  to  be  the  dearest  wife 

Of  one,  who  labor'd  all  his  life 

To  make  a  mine  of  gold  his  own, 

And  not  spend  sixpence  when  he'd  done, 

Was  heaven  upon  earth. 

When  these  two  blades  had  done,  d'ye  see, 
The  Feather  (as  it  might  be  me) 
Steps  out,  sir,  from  behind  the  screen, 
With  such  an  air  and  such  a  mien — 
"  Look  you,  old  gentleman," — in  short, 
Hs  quickly  spoil'd  the  statesman's  sport. 

It  proved  such  sunshine  weather, 
That  you  must  know,  at  the  first  beck 
The  lady  leapt  about  his  neck, 

And  off  they  went  together  1 

Sir  John  Vanbrugh. 
xc. 

A  PAIR  WELL  MATCHED. 

FAIR  Iris  I  love,  and  hourly  I  die, 
But  not  for  a  lip,  nor  a  languishing  eye ; 
She's  fickle  and  false,  and  there  we  agree, 
For  I  am  as  false  and  as  fickle  as  she  ; 
We  neither  believe  what  either  can  say, 
And  neither  believing,  we  neither  betray. 

Tis  civil  to  swear,  and  to  say  things  of  course; 
We  mean  not  the  taking  for  better  or  worse  : 
When  present  we  love  ;  and  when  absent  agree; 
I  think  not  of  Iris,  nor  Iris  of  me  : 
The  legend  of  Love  no  couple  can  find, 
So  easy  to  part,  or  so  equally  joined. 

John  Dryden. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  6l 

XCI. 

THE  BAG  OF  THE  BEE. 

ABOUT  the  sweet  bag  of  a  bee, 

Two  Cupids  fell  at  odds ; 
And  whose  the  pretty  prize  should  be, 

They  vow'd  to  ask  the  gods. 

Which  Venus  hearing,  thither  came, 

And  for  their  boldness  stript  them  ; 
And  taking  thence  from  each  his  flame, 

With  rods  of  myrtle  whipt  them. 

Which  done,  to  still  their  wanton  cries, 
When  quiet  grown  she'd  seen  them, 
She  kist,  and  wiped  their  dove-like  eyes ; 
And  gave  the  bag  between  them. 

Robert  Herrick. 

XCI  I. 

CUPID  MISTAKEN. 

As  after  noon,  one  summer's  day, 

Venus  stood  bathing  in  a  river  ; 
Cupid  a-shooting  went  that  way, 

New  strung  his  bow,  new  fill'd  his  quiver. 

With  skill  he  chose  his  sharpest  dart : 
With  all  his  might  his  bow  he  drew  : 

Swift  to  his  beauteous  parent's  heart 
The  too-well-guided  arrow  flew. 

I  faint !  I  die  !  the  goddess  cried  : 

0  cruel,  could'st  thou  find  none  other 
To  wreck  thy  spleen  on :  Parricide  ! 

Like  Nero,  thou  hast  slain  thy  mother. 

Poor  Cupid  sobbing  scarce  could  speak  ; 

"  Indeed,  mamma,  I  did  not  know  ye  : 
Alas !  how  easy  my  mistake  ? 

1  took  you  for  your  likeness,  Chloe." 

Matthew  Prior. 


62  LYRA  ELEGANT1ARUM. 

XCIII. 

THE  QUESTION  TO  LISETTA. 

WHAT  nymph  should  I  admire  or  trust, 
But  Chloe  beauteous,  Chloe  just  ? 
What  nymph  should  I  desire  to  see, 
But  her  who  leaves  the  plain  for  me, 
To  whom  should  I  compose  the  lay, 
But  her  who  listens  when  I  play  ? 
To  whom  in  song  repeat  my  cares, 
But  her  who  in  my  sorrow  shares  ? 
For  whom  should  I  the  garland  make, 
But  her  who  joys  the  gift  to  take, 
And  boasts  she  wears  it  for  my  sake  ? 
In  love  am  I  not  fully  blest  ? 
Lisetta,  prythee  tell  the  rest. 

LISETTA'S  REPLY. 

Sure  Chloe  just,  and  Chloe  fair, 
Deserves  to  be  your  only  care  ; 
But,  when  she  and  you  to-day 
Far  into  the  wood  did  stray, 
And  I  happen'd  to  pass  by; 
Which  way  did  you  cast  your  eve  ? 
But,  when  your  cares  to  her  you  sing, 
You  dare  not  tell  her  whence  they  spring; 
Does  it  not  more  afflict  your  heart, 
That  in  those  cares  she  bears  a  part  ? 
When  you  the  flowers  for  Chloe  twine, 
Why  do  you  to  her  garland  join 
The  meanest  bud  that  falls  from  mine  ? 
Simplest  of  swains  !  the  world  may  see, 
Whom  Chloe  loves,  and  who  loves  me. 

Matthew  Prior. 
XCIV. 
DAMON  AND  CUPID. 

THE  sun  was  now  withdrawn, 
The  shepherds  home  were  sped  ; 

The  moon  wide  o'er  the  lawn 
Her  silver  mantle  spread  ; 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  63 

When  Damon  stay'd  behind, 

And  saunter'd  in  the  grove. 
"  Will  ne'er  a  nymph  be  kind, 

And  give  me  love  for  love  ? 

"  O  !  those  were  golden  hours, 

When  Love,  devoid  of  cares, 
In  all  Arcadia's  bowers 

Lodg'd  nymphs  and  swains  by  pairs  ; 
But  now  from  wood  and  plain 

Flies  every  sprightly  lass; 
No  joys  for  me  remain, 

In  shades,  or  on  the  grass." 

The  winged  boy  draws  near  ; 

And  thus  the  swain  reproves  : 
"  While  Beauty  revell'd  here, 

My  game  lay  in  the  groves  ; 
At  Court  I  never  fail 

To  scatter  round  my  arrows  ; 
Men  fall  as  thick  as  hail, 

And  maidens  love  like  sparrows. 

"  Then,  swain,  if  me  you  need, 

Straight  lay  your  sheep-hook  down  ; 
Throw  by  your  oaten  reed, 

And  haste  away  to  town. 
So  well  I'm  known  at  Court, 

None  ask  where  Cupid  dwells; 
But  readily  resort 

To  Bellendens  or  Lepells." 

John  Gay. 

XCV. 
ANSWER  TO  CHLOE  JEALOUS. 

DEAR  Chloe,  how  blubber'd  is  that  pretty  face ! 

Thy  cheek  all  on  fire,  and  thy  hair  all  uncurl'd  : 
Prythee  quit  this  caprice  ;  and,  as  old  Falstaff  says, 

Let  us  e'en  talk  a  little  like  folks  of  this  world. 

How  canst  thou  presume,  thou  hast  leave  to  destroy 
The  beauties  which  Venus  but  lent  to  thy  keeping  ? 

Those  looks  were  design'd  to  inspire  love  and  joy  : 
More  ordinary  eyes  may  serve  people  for  weeping 


64  LYRA  ELEGANT/ARUM. 

To  be  vex'd  at  a  trifle  or  two  that  I  writ, 

Your  judgment  at  once,  and  my  passion,  you  wrong  : 

You  take  that  for  fact,  which  will  scarce  be  found  wit  ; 
Ods  life  1    must  one  swear  to  the  truth  of  a  song  ? 

What  I  speak,  my  fair  Chloe,  and  what  I  write,  shows 
The  difference  there  is  betwixt  nature  and  art  : 

I  court  others  in  verse — but  I  love  thee  in  prose  ; 
And  they  have  my  whimsies — but  thou  hast  my  heart 

The  God  of  us  verse-men  (you  know,  child)  the  Sun, 
How  after  his  journeys  he  sets  up  his  rest : 

If  at  morning  o'er  Earth  'tis  his  fancy  to  run ; 
At  night  he  declines  on  his  Thetis'  breast. 

So  when  I  am  wearied  with  wandering  all  day ; 

To  thee,  my  delight,  in  the  evening  I  come : 
No  matter  what  beauties  I  saw  in  my  way  : 

They  were  but  my  visits,  but  thou  art  my  home. 

Then  finish,  dear  Chloe,  this  pastoral  war  ; 

And  let  us  like  Horace  and  Lydia  agree ; 
For  thou  art  a  girl  as  much  brighter  than  her, 

As  he  was  a  poet  sublimer  then  me. 

Matthew  Prior. 

xcvi. 

PHYLLIDA,  that  loved  to  dream 
In  the  grove,  or  by  the  stream ; 

Sigh'd  on  velvet  pillow. 
What,  alas  !  should  fill  her  head, 
But  a  fountain,  or  a  mead, 

Water  and  a  willow  ? 

Love  in  cities  never  dwells, 
He  delights  in  rural  cells 

Which  sweet  woodbine  covers. 
What  are  your  assemblies  then? 
There,  'tis  true,  we  see  more  men ; 

But  much  fewer  lovers. 

O,  how  changed  the  prospect  grows ! 
Flock  and  herds  to  fops  and  beaux, 
Coxcombs  without  number ! 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  65 

Moon  and  stars  that  shone  so  bright, 
To  the  torch  and  waxen  light, 
And  whole  nights  at  ombre. 

Pleasant  as  it  is  to  hear 
Scandal  tickling  in  our  ear, 

E'en  of  our  own  mothers : 
In  the  chit-chat  of  the  day, 
To  us  is  paid,  when  we're  away, 

What  we  lent  to  others. 

Though  the  favorite  Toast  I  reign  ; 
Wine,  they  say,  that  prompts  the  vain, 

Heightens  defamation. 
Must  I  live  'twixt  spite  and  fear, 
Every  day  grow  handsomer, 

And  lose  my  reputation  ? 

Thus  the  fair  to  sighs  gave  way, 
Her  empty  purse  beside  her  lay. 

Nymph,  ah !  cease  thy  sorrow. 
Though  curst  Fortune  frown  to-night, 
This  odious  town  can  give  delight, 

If  you  win  to-morrow. 

John  Gay. 


THE  FEMALE  PHAETON. 

THUS  Kitty,  beautiful  and  young, 
And  wild  as  colt  untamed, 
Bespoke  the  fair  from  whence  she  sprung, 
With  little  rage  inflamed : 

Inflamed  with  rage  at  sad  restraint, 
Which  wise  mamma  ordain'd, 

And  sorely  vex'd  to  play  the  saint, 
Whilst  wit  and  beauty  reign'd. 

"  Shall  I  thumb  holy  books,  confined 

With  Abigails,  forsaken? 
Kitty's  for  other  things  design'd, 

Or  I  am  much  mistaken. 


66  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

Must  Lady  Jenny  frisk  about, 
And  visit  with  her  cousins  ? 

At  balls  must  she  make  all  the  rout, 
And  bring  home  hearts  by  dozens  ? 

What  has  she,  better,  pray,  than  I  ? 

What  hidden  charms  to  boast, 
That  all  mankind  for  her  should  die, 

Whilst  I  am  scarce  a  toast  ? 

Dearest  mamma,  for  once  let  me, 
Unchain'd,  my  fortune  try; 
I'll  have  my  Earl  as  well  as  she, 
Or  know  the  reason  why. 

I'll  soon  with  Jenny's  pride  quit  score, 

Make  all  her  lovers  fall : 
They'll  grieve  I  was  not  loosed  before ; 

She,  I  was  loosed  at  all  ! " 

Fondness  prevail'd — mamma  gave  way  : 

Kitty,  at  heart's  desire, 
Obtain'd  the  chariot  for  a  day 

And  set  the  world  on  fire. 

Matthew  Prior. 

XCVIII. 

To  E.  F. 

No  doubt  thy  little  bosom  beats 
When  sounds  a  wedding  bell ; 

No  doubt  it  pants  to  taste  the  sweets 
That  song  and  stories  tell. 

Awhile  in  shade  content  to  lie, 

Prolong  life's  morning  dream, 
While  others  rise  at  the  first  fly 
That  glitters  on  the  stream. 

Walter  S.  Landor. 
xcix. 

False  tho'  she  be  to  me  and  love. 

I'll  ne'er  pursue  revenge  ; 
For  still  the  charmer  I  approve, 

Tho'  I  deplore  her  change. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  67 

In  hours  of  bliss  we  oft  have  met, 

They  could  not  always  last; 
And  tho'  the  present  I  regret, 
I'm  grateful  for  the  past. 

William  Congreve. 

c. 
HER  RIGHT  NAME. 

As  Nancy  at  her  toilet  sat, 

Admiring  this,  and  blaming  that ; 

"  Tell  me,"  she  said ;  "but  tell  me  true  ; 

The  nymph  who  could  your  heart  subdue, 

What  sort  of  charms  does  she  posset  ? " 

"  Absolve  me,  Fair  One  :  I'll  confess 

With  pleasure,"  I  replied.     "  Her  hair, 

In  ringlets  rather  dark  than  fair, 

Does  down  her  ivory  bosom  roll, 

And,  hiding  half,  adorns  the  whole. 

In  her  high  forehead's  fair  half-round 

Love  sits  in  open  triumph  crown'd  : 

He  in  the  dimple  of  her  chin, 

In  private  state,  by  friends  is  seen. 

Her  eyes  are  neither  black,  nor  gray  ; 

Nor  fierce,  nor  feeble  is  their  ray ; 

Their  dubious  lustre  seems  to  show 

Something  that  speaks  nor  Yes,  nor  No. 

Her  lips  no  living  bard  I  weet, 

May  say,  how  red,  how  round,  how  sweet : 

Old  Homer  only  could  indite 

Their  vagrant  grace  and  soft  delight : 

They  stand  recorded  in  his  book, 

When  Helen  smiled,  and  Hebe  spoke — " 

The  gipsy,  turning  to  her  glass, 

Too  plainly  show'd  she  knew  the  face  : 

"  And  which  am  I  most  like,"  she  said, 

"  Your  Chloe,  or  your  nut-brown  maid  ?" 

Matthew  Pri«r. 

CI. 

THE  DESPAIRING  LOVER. 

AH,  the  poor  shepherd's  mournful  fate, 

When  doom'd  to  love,  and  doom'd  to  languish., 

To  bear  the  scornful  fair  one's  hate, 
Nor  dare  disclose  his  anguish. 


68  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

Yet  eager  looks  and  dying  sighs, 

My  secret  soul  discover  ; 
While  rapture  trembling  through  mine  eyes, 

Reveals  how  much  I  love  her. 
The  tender  glance,  the  reddening  cheek 

O'erspread  with  rising  blushes, 
A  thousand  various  ways  they  speak, 

A  thousand  various  wishes. 

For  O !  that  form  so  heavenly  fair, 

Those  languid  eyes  so  sweetly  smiling, 
That  artless  blush  and  modest  air, 

So  fatally  beguiling  ! 
Tho'  every  look  and  every  grace, 

So  charm  where'er  I  view  thee  ; 
Till  death  o'ertake  me  in  the  chase, 

Still  will  my  hopes  pursue  thee  : 
Then  when  my  tedious  hours  are  past, 

Be  this  last  blessing  given, 
Low  at  thy  feet  to  breathe  my  last, 

And  die  in  sight  of  heaven. 

William  Hamilton. 


THE  GARLAND. 

The  pride  of  every  grove  I  chose, 
The  violet  sweet,  and  lily  fair, 

The  dappled  pink,  and  blushing  rose, 
To  deck  my  charming  Chloe's  hair. 

At  morn  the  nymph  vouchsafed  to  place 
Upon  her  brow  the  various  wreath ; 

The  flowers  less  blooming  than  her  face, 
The  scent  less  fragrant  than  her  breath. 

The  flowers  she  wore  along  the  day ; 

And  every  nymph  and  shepherd  said, 
That  in  her  hair  they  looked  more  gay, 

Than  glowing  in  their  native  bed. 

Undrest  at  evening,  when  she  found 
Their  odours  lost,  their  colours  past; 

She  changed  her  look,  and  on  the  ground 
Her  garland  and  her  eye  she  cast. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  69 

That  eye  dropt  sense  distinct  and  clear, 

As  any  muse's  tongue  could  speak  ; 
When  from  its  lid  a  pearly  tear 

Ran  trickling  down  her  beauteous  cheek. 

Dissembling  what  I  knew  too  well, 
"  My  love,  my  life,"  said  I,  "  explain 

This  change  of  humor :  pr'ythee  tell  : 
That  falling  tear — what  does  it  mean  ?  " 

She  sigh'd  :  she  smiled :  and  to  the  flowers 

Pointing,  the  lovely  moralist  said: 
"  See  !  friend,  in  some  few  fleeting  hours, 

See  yonder,  what  a  change  is  made. 

"  Ah  me,  the  blooming  pride  of  May, 

And  that  of  Beauty  are  but  one  ; 
At  morn  both  flourish  bright  and  gay, 

Both  fade  at  evening,  pale  and  gone. 

"  At  morn  poor  Stella  danced  and  sung ; 

The  amorous  youth  around  her  bow'd  ; 
At  night  her  fatal  knell  was  rung ; 

I  saw,  and  kiss'd  her  in  her  shroud. 

"  Such  as  she  is,  who  died  to-day ; 

Such  I,  alas !  may  be  to-morrow  : 
Go,  Damon,  bid  thy  muse  display 

The  justice  of  thy  Chloe's  sorrow." 

Matthew  Prior. 

cm. 
THE  LOVER. 

Addressed  to  Congreve. 

AT  length,  by  so  much  importunity  press'd, 
Take,  Congreve,  at  once  the  inside  of  my  breast. 
The  stupid  indifference  so  often  you  blame, 
Is  not  owing  to  nature,  to  fear,  or  to  shame ; 
I  am  not  as  cold  as  a  virgin  in  lead, 
Nor  is  Sunday's  sermon  so  strong  in  my  head; 
I  know  but  too  well  how  old  Time  flies  along, 
That  we  live  but  few  years,  and  yet  fewer  are  young. 


70  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

But  I  hate  to  be  cheated,  and  never  will  buy 
Long  years  of  repentance  for  moments  of  joy. 

0  !  was  there  a  man — but  where  shall  I  find 
Good  sense  and  good  nature  so  equally  join'd  ? — 
Would  value  his  pleasures,  contribute  to  mine  ; 
Not  meanly  would  boast,  and  not  grossly  design  ; 
Not  over  severe,  yet  not  stupidly  vain, 

For  I  would  have  the  power,  but  not  give  the  pain. 

No  pedant,  yet  learned  ;  no  rake-helly  gay, 
Or  laughing  because  he  has  nothing  to  say  ; 
To  all  my  whole  sex  obliging  and  free, 
Yet  never  be  loving  to  any  but  me  ; 
In  public  preserve  the  decorum  that's  just, 
And  show  in  his  eye  he  is  true  to  his  trust; 
Then  rarely  approach,  and  respectfully  bow, 
But  not  fulsomely  forward,  or  foppishly  low. 

But  when  the  long  hours  of  public  are  past, 
And  we  meet  with  champagne  and  a  chicken  at  last, 
May  every  fond  pleasure  the  moment  endear  ; 
Be  banish'd  afar  both  discretion  and  fear ! 
Forgetting  or  scorning  the  aim  of  the  crowd, 
He  may  cease  to  be  formal,  and  I  to  be  proud, 
Till,  lost  in  the  joy,  we  confess  that  we  live, 
And  he  may  be  rude,  and  yet  I  may  forgive. 

And  that  my  delight  may  be  solidly  fix'd, 

Let  the  friend  and  the  lover  be  handsomely  mix'd, 

In  whose  tender  bosom  my  soul  may  confide, 

Whose  kindness  can  soothe  me,  whose  counsel  can  guide. 

For  such  a  dear  lover  as  here  I  describe, 

No  danger  should  fright  me,  no  millions  should  bribe  ; 

But  till  this  astonishing  creature  I  know, 

As  I  long  have  lived  chaste,  I  will  keep  myself  so. 

1  never  will  share  with  the  wanton  coquet, 
Or  be  caught  by  a  vain  affectation  of  wit, 

The  toasters  and  songsters  may  try  all  their  art, 

But  never  shall  enter  the  pass  of  my  heart. 

I  loathe  the  mere  rake,  the  drest  fopling  despise: 

Before  such  pursuers  the  chaste  virgin  flies  : 

And  as  Ovid  so  sweetly  in  parable  told, 

We  harden  like  trees,  and  like  rivers  grow  cold. 

Lady  Mary  W.  Montague. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 


CIV. 

THE  merchant,  to  secure  his  treasure, 

Conveys  it  in  a  borrow'd  name  : 
Euphelia  serves  to  grace  my  measure 

But  Chloe  is  my  real  flame. 

My  softest  verse,  my  darling  lyre 

Upon  Euphelia's  toilet  lay  ; 
When  Chloe  noted  her  desire, 

That  I  should  sing,  that  I  should  play. 

My  lyre  I  tune,  my  voice  I  raise  ; 

But  with  my  numbers  mix  my  sighs ; 
And  while  I  sing  Euphelia's  praise, 

I  fix  my  soul  on  Chloe's  eyes. 

Fair  Chloe  blush'd  :  Euphelia  frown'd  : 
I  sung,  and  gazed  :  I  play'd  and  trembled  ; 

And  Venus  to  the  Loves  around 
Remark'd  how  ill  we  all  dissembled. 

Matthew  Prior, 


cv. 

IN  vain  you  tell  your  parting  lover, 
You  wish  fair  winds  may  waft  him  over, 
Alas,  what  winds  can  happy  prove 
That  bear  me  far  from  what  I  love  ? 
Alas,  what  dangers  on  the  main 
Can  equal  those  that  I  sustain, 
From  slighted  vows,  and  cold  disdain  ? 

Be  gentle,  and  in  pity  choose 

To  wish  the  wildest  tempest  loose  ; 

That,  thrown  again  upon  the  coast 

Where  first  my  shipwreck'd  heart  was  lost, 

I  may  once  more  repeat  my  pain  ; 

Once  more  in  dying  notes  complain 

Of  slighted  vows,  and  cold  disdain. 

Matthew  Prior. 


7 3  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

CVI. 

ON  MRS.  A.  H.  AT  A  CONCERT. 

LOOK  where  my  dear  Hamilla  smiles, 

Hamilla  !  heavenly  charmer  ; 
See  how  with  all  their  arts  and  smiles 

The  Loves  and  Graces  arm  her. 
A  blush  dwells  glowing  on  her  cheeks, 

Fair  seats  of  youthful  pleasures  ; 
There  love  in  smiling  language  speaks, 

There  spreads  his  rosy  treasures. 

O,  fairest  maid,  I  own  thy  power, 

I  gaze,  I  sigh,  I  languish, 
Yet  ever,  ever  will  adore, — 

And  triumph  in  my  anguish. 
But  ease,  O  charmer,  ease  my  care, 

And  let  my  torments  move  thee  ; 
As  thou  art  fairest  of  the  fair, 

So  I  the  dearest  love  thee. 

William  Crawford. 

CVII. 

MRS.  FRANCES  HARRIS'  PETITION. 
Written  in  the  year  1701. 

To  their  Excellencies  the  Lords  Justices  of  Ireland. 

The  humble  petition  of  Frances  Harris,  who  must 

starve,  and  die  a  maid,  if  it  miscarries. 
Humbly  sheweth, 

That   I  went  to  warm  myself  in  Lady  Betty's  chamber, 
because  I  was  cold, 

And  I  had  in  a  purse  seven  pounds,  four  shillings,  and  six- 
pence, besides  farthings,  in  money  and  gold  : 

So,  because  I  had  been  buying  things  for  my  lady  last  night, 

I  was  resolved  to  tell  my  money,  to  see  if  it  was  right. 

Now  you  must  know,  because  my  trunk  has  a  very  bad  lock, 

Therefore  all  the  money  I  have,  which,  God  knows,  is  a  very 
small  stock, 

I  keep  in  my  pocket,  tied  about  my  middle,  next  my  smock. 


LYRA  ELEGANT/ARUM.  73 

So,  when  I  went  to  put  up  my  purse,  as  luck  would  have  it, 

my  smock  was  unript, 

And  instead  of  putting  it  into  my  pocket,  down  it  slipt : 
Then  the  bell  rung,  and  I  went  down  to  put  my  lady  to  bed : 
And,  God  knows,  I  thought  my  money  was  as  safe  as  my 

stupid  head  ! 

So,  when  I  came  up  again,  I  found  my  pocket  feel  very  light: 
But  when  I  search'd,  and  miss'd  my  purse,  law !  I  thought  I 

should  have  sunk  outright 
"  Lawk,  madam,"  says  Mary,  "how  d'ye  do?"   "Indeed," 

says  I,  "  never  worse  . 

But  pray,  Mary,  can  you  tell  what  I've  done  with  my  purse  ? 
"  Lawk,  help  me  !  "  said  Mary,  "  I  never  stirr'd  out  of  this 

place  :  " 
"  Nay,"  said  I,   "  I  had  it  in  Lady  Betty's  chamber,  that's  a 

plain  case." 

So  Mary  got  me  to  bed,  and  cover'd  me  up  warm  : 
However,  she  stole  away  my  garters,  that  I  might  do  myself 

no  harm. 

So  I  tumbled  and  toss'd  all  night,  as  you  may  very  well  think, 
But  hardly  ever  set  my  eyes  together,  or  slept  a  wink. 
So  I  was  a-dreamed,  methought,  that  I  went  and  search'd 

the  folks  round, 
And  in  a  corner  of  Mrs.  Duke's  box,  tied  in  a  rag  the  money 

was  found, 

So  next  morning  we  told  Whittle,  and  he  fell  a-swearing  : 
Then  my  dame  Wadger  came :  and  she,  you  know,  is  thick 

of  hearing  : 
"  Dame,"  said  I,  as  loud  as  I  could  bawl,  "  do  you  know 

what  a  loss  I  have  had  ?  " 

"  Nay,"  said  she,  "  my  Lord  Colway's  folks  are  all  very  sad ; 
For  my  Lord  Dromedary  comes  a  Tuesday  without  fail." 
"  Pugh  !  "  said  I,  "  but  that's  not  the  business  that  I  ail." 
Says  Gary,  says  he,    "  I've   been  a  servant  this  five-and- 

twenty  years  come  spring, 

And  in  all  the  places  Hived  I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing." 
"  Yes,"  says  the  Steward,  "  I  remember,  when  I  was  at  my 

Lady  Shrewsbury's, 

Such  a  thing  as  this  happened,  just  about  the  time  of  goose- 
berries." 
So  I  went  to  the  party  suspected,  and  I  found  her  full  of 

grief, 
(Now,  you  must  know,  of  all  things  in  the  world  I  hate  a 

thief,) 


74 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 


However,  I  was  resolved  to  bring  the  discourse  slily  about : 
"  Mrs.  Dukes,"  said  I,  "  here's  an  ugly  accident  has  happen'd 

out: 

'Tis  not  that  I  value  the  money  three  skips  of  a  mouse  ; 
But  the  thing  I  stand  upon  is  the  credit  of  the  house. 
'Tis  true,  seven  pounds,  four  shillings,  and  sixpence,  makes 

a  great  hole  in  my  wages  : 

Besides,  as  they  say,  service  is  no  inheritance  in  these  ages. 
Now,  Mrs.  Dukes,  you  know,  and  everybody  understands, 
That  tho'   'tis  hard  to  judge,  yet  money  can't  go  without 

hands." 
"  The  devil  take  me,"  said  she  (blessing  herself),  "  if  ever  I 

saw't ! " 
So  she  roar'd  like  a  Bedlam,  as  tho'  I  had  call'd  her  all  to 

naught. 

So  you  know,  what  could  I  say  to  her  any  more  ? 
I  e'en  left  her,  and  came  away  as  wise  as  I  was  before. 
Well ;  but  then  they  would  have  had  me  gone  to  the  cunning 

man : 
"No,"  said  I,  "'Tis  the  same  thing,  the  chaplain  will  be 

here  anon." 
So  the  chaplain  came  in.     Now  the  servants  say  he  is  my 

sweetheart, 
Because  he's  always  in  my  chamber,  and  I  always  take  his 

part 
So,  as  the  devil  would  have  it,  before  I  was  aware,  out  I 

blunder'cl, 
"  Parson,"  said  I,   "  can  you  cast  a  nativity  when  a  body's 

plunder'd  ? " 
(Now  you  must  know,  he  hates  to  be  called  parson,  like  the 

devil.) 
"  Truly,"  says  he,  "  Mrs.  Nab,  it  might  become  you  to  be 

more  civil ; 

If  your  money  be  gone,  as  a  learned  divine  says,  d'ye  see  ; 
V'ou  are  no  text  for  my  handling  ;  so  take  that  from  me: 
I  was  never  taken  for  a  conjuror  before,  I'd  have  you  to 

know." 
"  Law  !  "  said  I,  "  don't  be  angry,  I  am  sure  I  never  thought 

you  so : 

You  know  I  honor  the  cloth ;  I  design  to  be  a  parson's  wife, 
I  never  took  one  in  your  coat  for  a  conjuror  in  all  my  life." 
With  that,  he  twisted  his  girdle  at  me  like  a  rope,  as  who 

should  say , 
"  Now  you  may  go  hang  yourself  for  me  !  "  and  so  went  away. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  75 

Well:  I  thought  I  should  have  swoon'd,  "  Law!  "  said  I, 

"  what  shall  I  do  ? 

I  have  lost  my  money,  and  shall  lose  my  true  love  too  !  " 
Then  my  Lord  called  me:  "Harry,"  said  my  Lord,  "don't 

cry, 
I'll  give  'you  something  towards  your  loss ; "  and,  says  my 

Lady,  "  so  will  I." 
"O,  but,"  said  I,  ''what  if,  after  all,  the   chaplain  won't 

come  to  ? " 

For  that,  he  said,  (an't  please  your  Excellencies,)  I  must  peti- 
tion you. 
The  premises  tenderly  consider'd,  I  desire  your  Excellencies' 

protection, 

And  that  I  may  have  a  share  in  next  Sunday's  collection  ; 
And,  over  and   above,  that  I  may  have  your  Excellencies' 

letter, 
With  an  order  for  the  chaplain  aforesaid,  or,  instead  of  him, 

a  better : 

And  then  your  poor  petitioner  both  night  and  day, 
Or  the  chaplain  (for  'tis  his  trade,)  as  in  duty  bound,  shall 

ever  pray. 

Jonathan  Swift. 


CVIII. 

WHEN  thy  beauty  appears 
In  its  graces  and  airs, 

All  bright  as  an  angel  new  dropt  from  the  sky  ; 
At  distance  I  gaze,  and  am  awed  by  my  fears, 

So  strangely  you  dazzle  my  eye  1 

But  when,  without  art, 

Your  kind  thought  you  impart, 

When  your  love  runs  in  blushes  thro'  every  vein, 
When  it  darts  from  your  eyes,  when  it  pants  in  your  heart, 

Then  I  know  you're  a  womrfn  again. 

There's  a  passion  and  pride 
In  our  sex,  she  replied, 

And  this,  might  I  gratify  both,  I  would  do: 
Still  an  angel  appear  to  each  lover  beside, 

But  still  be  a  woman  to  you. 

Thomas  Parnell. 


76  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 


STELLA'S  BIRTH-DAY,  1718. 

STELLA  this  day  is  thirty-four, 
(We  shan't  dispute  a  year  or  more  :) 
However,  Stella,  be  not  troubled  ; 
Altho'  thy  size  and  years  are  doubled 
Since  first  I  saw  thee  at  sixteen, 
The  brightest  virgin  on  the  green  ; 
So  little  is  thy  form  declined  ; 
Made  up  so  largely  in  thy  mind. 

O,  would  it  please  the  gods  to  split 
Thy  beauty,  size,  and  years,  and  wit ! 
No  age  could  furnish  out  a  pair 
Of  nymphs  so  graceful,  wise,  and  fair; 
With  half  the  lustre  of  your  eyes, 
With  half  your  wit,  your  years,  and  size. 
And  then,  before  it  grew  too  late, 
How  should  I  beg  of  gentle  fate 
(That  either  nymph  might  have  her  swain) 
To  split  my  worship  too  in  twain. 

Jonathan  Swift. 


ex. 

STELLA'S  BIRTH-DAY,  1720. 

ALL  travellers  at  first  incline 
Where'er  they  see  the  fairest  sign  ; 
And,  if  they  find  the  chamber  neat, 
And  like  the  liquor  and  the  meat, 
Will  call  again,  and  recommend 
The  Angel  Inn  to  every  friend. 
What  though  the  painting  grows  decay'd, 
The  House  will  never  lose  its  trade  : 
Nay,  tho'  the  treacherous  tapster,  Thomas, 
Hangs  a  new  angel  two  doors  from  us, 
As  fine  as  dauber's  hands  can  make  it, 
In  hopes  that  strangers  may  mistake  it, 
We  think  it  both  a  shame  and  sin 
To  quit  the  true  old  Angel  Inn. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

Now  this  is  Stella's  case  in  fact ; 
An  angel's  face,  a  little  crack'd; 
(Could  poets,  or  could  painters  fix. 
How  angels  iook  at  thirty-six  :) 
This  drew  us  in  at  first  to  find 
In  such  a  form  an  angel's  mind ; 
And  every  virtue  now  supplies 
The  fainting  rays  of  Stella's  eyes. 
See  at  her  levee  crowding  swains, 
Whom  Stella  freely  entertains 
With  breeding,  humour,  wit,  and  sense, 
And  puts  them  but  to  small  expense  ; 
Their  mind  so  plentifully  fills, 
And  makes  such  reasonable  bills, 
So  little  gets  for  what  she  gives, 
We  really  wonder  how  she  lives  ! 
And  had  her  stock  been  less,  no  doubt 
She  must  have  long  ago  run  out. 

Then  who  can  think  we'll  quit  the  place, 
When  Doll  hangs  out  a  newer  face; 
Or  stop  and  light  at  Chloe's  head, 
With  scraps  and  leavings  to  be  fed  ? 

Then,  Chloe,  still  go  on  to  prate 
Of  thirty-six,  and  thirty-eight ; 
Pursue  your  trade  of  scandal-picking, 
Your  hints,  that  Stella  is  no  chicken; 
Your  innuendos,  when  you  tell  us 
That  Stella  loves  to  talk  with  fellows  : 
And  let  me  warn  you  to  believe 
A  truth,  for  which  your  soul  should  grieve  ; 
That  should  you  live  to  see  the  day 
When  Stella  s  locks  must  all  be  grey, 
When  age  must  print  a  furrow'd  trace 
On  every  feature  of  her  face  ; 
That  you,  and  all  your  senseless  tribe, 
Could  art,  or  time,  or  nature  bribe 
To  make  you  look  like  beauty's  queen, 
And  hold'for  ever  at  fifteen ; 
No  bloom  of  youth  can  ever  blind 
The  cracks  and  wrinkles  of  your  mind ; 
All  men  of  sense  will  pass  your  door, 
And  crowd  to  Stella's  at  fourscore. 

Jonathan  Swift, 


77 


78  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

CXI. 

STELLA'S  BIRTH-DAY,  1724. 

As,  when  a  beauteous  nymph  decays, 

We  say,  she's  past  her  dancing  days; 

So  poets  lose  their  feet  by  time, 

And  can  no  longer  dance  in  rhyme. 

Your  annual  bard  had  rather  chose 

To  celebrate  your  birth  in  prose : 

Yet  merry  folks,  who  want  by  chance 

A  pair  to  make  a  country  dance, 

Call  the  old  housekeeper,  and  get  her 

To  fill  a  place,  for  want  of  better  : 

While  Sheridan  is  off  the  hooks, 

And  friend  Delany  at  his  books, 

That  Stella  may  avoid  disgrace, 

Once  more  the  Dean  supplies  their  place. 

Beauty  and  wit,  too  sad  a  truth  ! 
Have  always  been  confined  to  youth; 
The  god  of  wit,  and  beauty's  queen, 
He  twenty-one,  and  she  fifteen. 
No  poet  ever  sweetly  sung, 
Unless  he  were,  like 'Phoebus,  young; 
Nor  ever  nymph  inspired  to  rhyme, 
Unless,  like  Venus,  in  her  prime. 
At  fifty-six,  if  this  be  true, 
Am  I  a  poet  fit  for  you  ? 
Or,  at  the  age  of  forty-three, 
Are  you  a  subject  fit  for  me  ? 
Adieu  !  bright  wit,  and  radiant  eyes, 
You  must  be  grave  and  I  be  wise. 
Our  fate  in  vain  we  would  oppose  : 
But  I'll  be  still  your  friend  in  prose ; 
Esteem  and  friendship  to  express, 
Will  not  require  poetic  dress  : 
And,  if  the  Muse  deny  her  aid 
To  have  them  sung,  they  may  be  said. 

But,  Stella,  say,  what  evil  tongue 
Reports  you  are  no  longer  young ; 
That  Time  sits,  with  his  scythe  to  mow 
Where  erst  sat  Cupid  with  his  bow  ; 
That  half  your  locks  are  turn'd  to  grey  ? 
I'll  ne'er  believe  a  word  they  say. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  jg 

Tis  true,  but  let  it  not  be  known, 
My  eyes  are  somewhat  dimmish  grown. 
For  Nature,  always  in  the  right, 
To  your  decay  adapts  my  sight ; 
And  wrinkles  undistinguish'd  pass, 
For  I'm  ashamed  to  use  a  glass  ; 
And  till  I  see  them  with  these  eyes, 
Whoever  says  you  have  them,  lies. 
Nu  length  of  time  can  make  you  quit 
Honour  and  virtue,  sense  and  wit  ; 
Thus  you  may  still  be  young  to  me. 
While  I  can  better  hear  than  see, 
O  ne'er  may  Fortune  show  her  spite, 
To  make  me  deaf,  and  mend  my  sight. 

Jonathan  Swift, 
CXI  I. 

STELLA'S  BIRTHDAY,  MARCH   13,  1726. 

THIS  day,  whate'er  the  Fates  decree, 
Shall  still  be  kept  with  joy  by  me: 
This  day  then  let  us  not  be  told 
That  you  are  sick,  and  I  grown  old ; 
Nor  think  on  our  approaching  ills, 
And  talk  of  spectacles  and  pills; 
To-morrow  will  be  time  enough 
To  hear  such  mortifying  stuff. 
Yet,  since  from  reason  may  be  brought 
A  better  and  more  pleasing  thought, 
Which  can  in  spite  of  all  decays 
Support  a  few  remaining  days, 
From  not  the  gravest  of  divines 
Accept  for  once  some  serious  lines. 

Altho'  we  now  can  form  no  more 
Long  schemes  of  life,  as  heretofore ; 
Yet  you,  while  time  is  running  fast, 
Can  look  with  joy  on  what  is  past. 

Were  future  happiness  and  pain 
A  mere  contrivance  of  the  brain, 
As  atheists  argue,  to  entice 
And  fit  their  proselytes  for  vice, 
(The  only  comfort  they  propose, 
To  have  companions  in  their  woes) 


8o  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

Grant  this  the  case  ;  yet  sure  'tis  hard 
That  virtue,  styled  its  own  reward, 
And  by  all  sages  understood 
To  be  the  chief  of  human  good, 
Should  acting  die,  nor  leave  behind 
Some  lasting  pleasure  in  the  mind, 
Which,  by  remembrance,  will  assuage 
Grief,  sickness,  poverty,  and  age  ; 
And  strongly  shoot  a  radiant  dart 
To  shine  thro'  life's  declining  part. 
Say,  Stella,  feel  you  no  content, 
Reflecting  on  a  life  well  spent? 
Your  skilful  hand  employ'd  to  save 
Despairing  wretches  from  the  grave  ; 
And  then  supporting  with  your  store 
Those  whom  you  dragg'd  from  death  before  : 
So  Providence  on  mortals  waits, 
Preserving  what  it  first  creates  : 
Your  generous  boldness  to  defend 
An  innocent  and  absent  friend  ; 
That  courage  which  can  make  you  just 
To  merit  humbled  in  the  dust ; 
The  detestation  you  express 
For  vice  in  all  its  glittering  dress; 
That  patience  under  torturing  pain, 
Where  stubborn  stoics  would  complain  : 
Must  these  like  empty  shadows  pass, 
Or  forms  reflected  from  a  glass  ? 
Or  mere  chimaeras  in  the  mind, 
That  fly,  and  leave  no  marks  behind? 
Does  not  the  body  thrive  and  grow 
By  food  of  twenty  years  ago  ? 
And,  had  it  not  been  still  supplied, 
It  must  a  thousand  times  have  died. 
Then  who  with  reason  can  maintain 
That  no  effects  of  food  remain  ? 
And  is  not  virtue  in  mankind 
The  nutriment  that  feeds  the  mind  ; 
Upheld  by  each  good  action  past, 
And  still  continued  by  the  last  ? 
Then,  who  with  reason  can  pretend 
That  all  effects  of  virtue  end  ? 
Believe  me  Stella,  when  you  show 
That  true  contempt  for  things  below, 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  8 1 

Nor  prize  your  life  for  other  ends 
Than  merely  to  oblige  your  friends, 
Your  former  actions  claim  their  part, 
And  join  to  fortify  your  heart. 
For  virtue  in  her  daily  race, 
Like  Janus,  bears  a  double  face , 
Looks  back  with  joy  where  she  has  gone, 
And  therefore  goes  with  courage  on. 
She  at  your  sickly  couch  will  wait, 
And  guide  you  to  a  better  state. 

O  then,  whatever  Heaven  intends, 
Take  pity  on  your  pitying  friends  ! 
Nor  let  your  ills  affect  your  mind, 
To  fancy  they  can  be  unkind. 
Me,  surely  me,  you  ought  to  spare, 
Who  gladly  would  your  sufferings  share, 
Or  give  my  scrap  of  life  to  you, 
And  think  it  far  beneath  your  due  ; 
You,  to  whose  care  so  oft  I  owe 
That  I'm  alive  to  tell  you  so. 

Jonathan  Swift. 


CXIII. 

To  MRS.  THRALE  ON  HER  COMPLETING   HER  THIRTY- 
FIFTH  YEAR. 

OFT  in  danger,  yet  alive, 
We  are  come  to  thirty-five  ; 
Long  may  better  years  arrive, 
Better  years  than  thirty-five ! 
Could  philosophers  contrive 
Life  to  stop  at  thirty-five, 
Time  his  hours  should  never  drive 
O'er  the  bounds  of  thirty-five. 
High  to  soar  and  deep  to  dive, 
Nature  gives  at  thirty-five. 
Ladies,  stock  and  tend  your  hive, 
Trifle  not  at  thirty-five  ; 
For,  howe'er  we  boast  and  strive, 
Life  declines  from  thirty-five. 
He  that  ever  hopes  to  thrive 
Must  begin  by  thirty-five ; 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

And  all  who  wisely  wish  to  wive 
Must  look  on  Thrale  at  thirty-five. 

Samuel  Johnson. 


cxiv. 

WlNIFREDA. 

AWAY,  let  nought  to  love  displeasing, 

My  Winifreda,  move  your  care  ; 
Let  nought  delay  the  heavenly  blessing, 

Nor  squeamish  pride,  nor  gloomy  fear. 

What  tho'  no  grants  of  royal  donors 
With  pompous  titles  grace  our  blood; 

We'll  shine  in  more  substantial  honours, 
And  to  be  noble  we'll  be  good. 

Our  name,  while  virtue  thus  we  tender, 
Will  sweetly  sound  where'er  'tis  spoke  : 

And  all  the  great  ones,  they  shall  wonder 
How  they  respect  such  little  folk. 

What  tho'  from  fortune's  lavish  bounty 

No  mighty  treasures  we  possess; 
We'll  find  within  our  pittance  plenty, 

And  be  content  without  excess. 

Still  shall  each  returning  season 

Sufficient  for  our  wishes  give ; 
For  we  will  live  a  life  of  reason, 

And  that's  the  only  life  to  live. 

Thro'  age  and  youth  in  love  excelling, 
We'll  hand  in  hand  together  tread, 

Sweet  smiling  peace  shall  crown  our  dwelling, 
And  babes,  sweet  smiling  babes,  our  bed. 

How  shall  I  love  the  pretty  creatures, 

While  round  my  knees  they  fondly  clung  ; 

To  see  them  look  their  mother's  features, 
To  hear  them  lisp  their  mother's  tongue. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  83 

And  when  with  envy  time  transported, 

Shall  think  to  rob  us  of  our  joys, 
You'll  in  your  girls  again  be  courted, 

And  I'll  go  wooing  in  my  boys. 

Unknown. 

cxv. 

A  MAN  may  live  thrice  Nestor's  life, 

Thrice  wander  out  Ulysses'  race, 
Yet  never  find  Ulysses'  wife ; — 

Such  change  hath  chanced  in  this  case  ! 
Less  age  will  serve  than  Paris  had, 

Small  pain  (if  none  be  small  enow) 
To  find  good  store  of  Helen's  trade : 

Such  sap  the  root  doth  yield  the  bough  ! 
For  one  good  wife,  Ulysses  slew 

A  worthy  knot  of  gentle  blood  : 
For  one  ill  wife,  Greece  overthrew 

The  town  of  Troy. — Sith  bad  and  good 
Bring  mischief,  Lord  let  be  thy  will 
To  keep  me  free  from  either  ill ! 

Unknown, 


THI<:  JOYS  OF  WEDLOCK. 

How  blest  has  my  time  been !  what  joys  have  I  known, 
Since  wedlock's  soft  bondage  made  Jessy  my  own  ! 
So  joyful  my  heart  is,  so  easy  my  chain, 
That  freedom  is  tasteless,  and  roving  a  pain. 

Through  walks  grown  with  woodbines,  as  often  we  stray, 
Around  us  our  boys  and  girls  frolic  and  play : 
How  pleasing  their  sport  is  !  the  wanton  ones  see, 
And  borrow  their  looks  from  my  Jessy  and  me. 

To  try  her  sweet  temper,  oft  times  am  I  seen, 
In  revels  all  day  with  the  nymphs  on  the  green; 
Tho'  painful  iny  absence,  my  doubts  she  beguiles, 
And  meets  me  at  night  with  complaisance  and  smiles. 

What  though  on  her  cheeks  the  rose  loses  its  hue, 
Her  wit  and  pood  humour  bloom  all  the  year  through  ; 
Time  still,  as  .he  flies,  adds  increase  to  her  truth, 
And  gives  to  her  mind  what  he  steals  from  her  youth. 


84  LYRA    ELEGANTIARUM. 

Ye  shepherds  so  gay,  who  make  love  to  ensnare, 
And  cheat  with  false  vows,  the  too  credulous  fair; 
In  search  of  true  pleasure  how  vainly  you  roam  ! 
To  hold  it  for  life,  you  must  find  it  at  home. 

Edward  Moore. 


CXVII. 

ON  THE  MARRIAGE  ACT. 

THE  fools  that  are  wealthy  are  sure  of  a  bride; 
For  richness  like  raiment  their  nakedness  hide  ; 
The  slave  that  is  needy  must  starve  all  his  life, 
In  a  bachelor's  plight,  without  mistress  or  wife. 

In  good  days  of  yore  they  ne'er  troubled  their  heads 
In  settling  of  jointures,  or  making  of  deeds; 
But  Adam  and  Eve,  when  they  first  enter'd  course, 
E'en  took  one  another  for  better  or  worse. 

Then  pr'ythee,  dear  Chloe,  ne'er  aim  to  be  great, 
Let  love  be  the  jointure,  don't  mind  the  estate  ; 
You  can  never  be  poor  who  have  all  of  these  charms : 
And  I  shall  be  rich  when  I've  you  in  my  arms. 

Unknown. 

CVIII. 

To  His  WIFE  WITH  A  KNIFE  ON  THE  FOURTEENTH  AN- 
NIVERSARY OF  HER  WEDDING-DAY,  WHICH  HAPPENED 
TO  BE  HER  BIRTH-DAY  AND  NEW  YEAR'S  DAY. 

A  KNIFE,  dear  girl,  cuts  love,  they  say — 
Mere  modish  love  perhaps  it  may ; 
For  any  tool  of  any  kind 
Can  separate  what  was  never  join'd. 
The  knife  that  cuts  our  love  in  two 
Will  have  much  tougher  work  to  do: 
Must  cut  your  softness,  worth,  and  spirit 
Down  to  the  vulgar  size  of  merit; 
To  level  yours  with  common  taste, 
Must  cut  a  world  of  sense  to  waste ; 
And  from  your  single  beauty's  store, 
Clip  what  would  dizen  out  a  score. 


LYRA  ELEGANT/ARUM.  85 

The  selfsame  blade  from  me  must  sever 

Sensation,  judgment,  sight — for  ever  1 

All  memory  of  endearments  past, 

All  hope  of  comforts  long  to  last, 

All  that  makes  fourteen  years  with  you 

A  summer — and  a  short  one  too: 

All  that  affection  feels  and  fears, 

When  hours,  without  you,  seem  like  years. 

'Till  that  be  done, — and  I'd  as  soon 

Believe  this  knife  would  clip  the  moon, — 

Accept  my  present  undeterr'd, 

And  leave  their  proverbs  to  the  herd. 

If  in  a  kiss — delicious  treat! 

Your  lips  acknowledge  the  receipt ; 

Love,  fond  of  such  substantial  fare, 

And  proud  to  play  the  glutton  there, 

All  thoughts  of  cutting  will  disdain, 

Save  only — "  cut  and  come  again." 

Samuel  Bishop. 


CXIX. 

To  His  WIFE  ON  THE  SIXTEENTH  ANNIVERSARY  OF  HER 
WEDDING-DAY,  WITH  A  RING. 


"  THEE,  Mary,  with  this  ring  I  wed," 
So  sixteen  years  ago  I  said — 
Behold  another  ring!  "for  what?" 
To  wed  thee  o'er  again — why  not  ? 

With  the  first  ring  I  married  youth, 
Grace,  beauty,  innocence  and  truth; 
Taste  long  admired,  sense  long  rever'd, 
And  all  my  Molly  then  appear'd. 

If  she,  by  merit  since  disclosed, 
Prove  twice  the  woman  I  supposed, 
I  plead  that  double  merit  now, 
To  justify  a  double  vow. 

Here  then  to-day,  with  faith  as  sure ; 
With  ardour  as  intense  and  pure, 
As  when  amidst  the  rites  divine 
I  took  thy  troth,  and  plighted  mine, 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

To  thee,  sweet  girl,  my  second  ring, 
A  token  and  a  pledge  I  bring ; 
With  this  I  wed,  till  death  us  part, 
Thy  riper  virtues  to  my  heart; 
These  virtues  which,  before  untried, 
The  wife  has  added  to  the  bride; 
Those  virtues,  whose  progressive  claim, 
Endearing  wedlock's  very  name, 
My  soul  enjoys,  my  song  approves, 
For  conscience'  sake  as  well  as  love's. 

For  why  ?    They  teach  me  hour  by  hour 
Honor's  high  thought,  affection's  power, 
Discretion's  deed.     Sound  judgment's  sentence, 
And  teach  me  all  things— but  repentance. 

Samuel  Bishop. 

cxx. 
ON    MARRIAGE. 

How  happy  a  thing  were  a  wedding, 

And  a 'bedding, 
If  a  man  might  purchase  a  wife 

For  a  twelvemonth  and  a  day  ; 
But  to  live  with  her  all  a  man's  life, 

Forever  and  for  aye, 
Till  she  grow  as  grey  as  a  cat, 
Good  faith,  Mr.  Parson,  excuse  me  from  that ! 

Thomas  Flatman. 


THE  GRAND  QUESTION  DEBATED  WHETHER  HAMILTON'S 
BAWN  SHOULD  BE  TURNED  INTO  A  BARRACK  OR  A 
MALT-HOUSE.  (1729.) 


THUS  spoke  to  my  lady  the  knight  full  of  care : 
"  Let  me  have  your  advice  in  a  weighty  affair. 
This  Hamilton's  Bawn,  whilst  it  sticks  on  my  hand, 
I  lose  by  the  house  what  I  get  by  the  land  ; 
But  how  to  dispose  of  it  to  the  best  bidder, 
For  a  barrack  or  malt-house,  we  now  must  consider. 

First,  let  me  suppose  I  make  it  a  malt-house, 
Here  I  have  computed  the  profit  will  fall  t'us ; 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  87 

There's  nine  hundred  pounds  for  labour  and  grain, 
I  increase  it  to  twelve,  so  three  hundred  remain  ; 
A  handsome  addition  for  wine  and  good  cheer, 
Three  dishes  a  day,  and  three  hogsheads  a  year : 
With  a  dozen  large  vessels  my  vault  shall  be  stored  ; 
No  little  scrub  joint  shall  come  on  to  my  board: 
And  you  and  the  clean  no  more  shall  combine 
To  stint  me  at  night  to  one  bottle  of  wine  ; 
Nor  shall  I,  for  his  humour,  permit  you  to  purloin 
A  stone  and  a  quarter  of  beef  from  my  sirloin. 
If  I  make  it  a  barrack,  the  Crown  is  my  tenant ; 
My  clear,  I  have  ponder'd  again  and  again  on't ; 
In  poundage  and  drawbacks  I  lose  half  my  rent, 
Whatever  they  give  me  I  must  be  content, 
Or  join  with  the  Court  in  every  debate  ; 
And  rather  than  that  I  would  lose  my  estate." 

Thus  ended  the  knight :  thus  began  his  meek  wife  ; 
*'  It  must  and  it  shall  be  a  barrack,  my  life. 
I'm  grown  a  mere  mopus;  no  company  comes 
But  a  rabble  of  tenants  and  rusty  dull  Rums. 
With  parsons  what  lady  can  keep  herself  clean? 
I'm  all  over  daub'd  when  I  sit  by  the  dean. 
But  if  you  will  give  us  a  barrack,  my  dear, 
The  captain,  I'm  sure,  will  always  come  here ; 
I  then  shall  not  value  his  deanship  a  straw, 
For  the  captain,  I  warrant,  will  keep  him  in  awe  ; 
Or,  should  he  pretend  to  be  brisk  and  alert, 
Will  tell  him  that  chaplains  should  not  be  so  pert ; 
That  men  of  his  coat  should  be  minding  their  prayers, 
And  not  among  ladies  to  give  themselves  airs." 

Thus  argued  my  lady,  but  argued  in  vain  ; 
The  knight  his  opinion  resolved  to  maintain. 

But  Hannah,  who  listen'd  to  all  that  was  past, 
And  could  not  endure  so  vulgar  a  taste, 
As  soon  as  her  ladyship  call'd  to  be  dress'd, 
Cried,  "  Madam,  why  surely  my  master's  possess'd. 
Sir  Arthur  the  maltster  !     How  fine  it  will  sound  ! 
I'd  rather  the  bawn  were  sunk  underground. 
But,  madam,  I  guess'd  there  would  never  come  good, 
When  I  saw  him  so  often  with  Darby  and  Wood. 
And  now  my  dream's  out ;  for  I  was  adream'd 
That  I  saw  a  huge  rat ;  O  dear,  how  I  scream'd ! 
And  after,  methought  I  had  lost  my  new  shoes ; 
And  Molly,  she  said,  1  should  hear  some  ill  news. 


gg  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

"  Dear  Madam,  had  you  but  the  spirit  to  tease, 
You  might  have  a  barrack  whenever  you  please ; 
And,  madam,  I  always  believed  you  so  stout, 
That  for  twenty  denials  you  would  not  give  out 
If  I  had  a  husband  like  him,  I  ///rtest, 
Till  he  gave  me  my  will,  I  would  give  him  no  rest; 
And  rather  than  come  in  the  same  pair  of  sheets 
\Vith  such  a  cross  man,  I  would  lie  in  the  streets: 
But,  madam,  I  beg  you,  contrive  and  invent, 
And  worry  him  out,  till  he  gives  his  consent. 
Dear  madam,  whene'er  of  a  barrack  I  think, 
An  I  were  to  be  hang'd,  I  can't  sleep  a  wink: 
For  if  a  new  crotchet  comes  into  my  brain, 
I  can't  get  it  out,  though  I'd  never  so  fain. 
I  fancy  already  a  barrack  contrived 
At  Hamilton's  Bawn,  and  the  troop  is  arrived; 
Of  this,  to  be  sure,  Sir  Arthur  has  warning, 
And  waits  on  the  captain  betimes  the  next  morning. 
Now  see  when  they  meet  how  their  honours  behave, 
4  Noble  captain,  your  servant ' — '  Sir  Arthur  your  slave  ; ' 
'  You  honour  me  much  ' — '  The  honour  is  mine — ' 
'  'Twas  a  sad  rainy  night ' — '  But  the  morning  is  fine.' 
'  Pray  how  does  my  lady  ? ' — '  My  wife's  at  your  service, 
'  I  think  I  have  seen  her  picture  by  Jervis.' 
'  tiood  morrow,  good  captain  ' — '  I'll  wait  on  you  down — ' 
'  You  shan't  stir  a  foot' — '  You'll  think  me  a  clown — ' 
'  For  all  the  world,  captain' — '  Not  half  an  inch  farther — ' 
'  You  must  be  obey'd — '  Your  servant,  Sir  Arthur  ; 
My  humble  respects  to  my  lady  unknown — ' 
'  I  hope  you  will  use  my  house  as  your  own.' " 

"Go  bring  me  my  smock,  and  leave  off  your  prate, 
Thou  hast  certainly  gotten  a  cup  in  thy  pate." 
"  Pray,  madam,  be  quiet :  what  was  it  I  said  ? 
You  had  like  to  have  put  it  quite  out  of  my  head. 

Next  day,  to  be  sure,  the  captain  will  come 
At  the  head  of  his  troop,  with  trumpet  and  drum  ; 
Now,  madam,  observe  how  he  marches  in  state ; 
The  man  with  the  kettle-drum  enters  the  gate  ; 
Dub,  dub,  adub,  dub.     The  trumpeters  follow, 
Tantara,  tantara  ;  while  all  the  bovs  halloo. 
See  now  comes  the  captain  all  daubed  with  gold  lace; 
O,  la  !  the  sweet  gentleman,  look  in  his  face  ; 
And  see  how  he  rides  like  a  lord  of  the  land, 
With  the  fine  flaming  sword  that  he  holds  in  his  hand ; 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 


89 


And  his  horse,  the  dear  creter,  it  prances  and  rears, 

With  ribands  in  knots  at  its  tail  and  its  ears ; 

At  last  comes  the  troop,  by  the  word  of  command, 

Drawn  up  in  our  Court,  when  the  captain  cries,  Stand ! 

Your  ladyship  lifts  up  the  sash  to  be  seen, 

(For  sure  I  had  dizen'd  you  out  like  a  queen) ; 

The  captain,  to  show  he  is  proud  of  the  favour, 

Looks  up  to  your  window,  and  cocks  up  his  beaver. 

(His  beaver  is  cock'd;  pray,  madam,  mark  that, 

For  a  captain  of  horse  never  takes  off  his  hat  ; 

Because  he  has  never  a  hand  that  is  idle, 

For  the  right  holds  the  sword,  and  the  left  holds  the  bridle  ;) 

Then  flourishes  thrice  his  sword  in  the  air, 

As  a  compliment  due  to  a  lady  so  fair ; 

(How  I  tremble  to  think  of  the  blood  it  has  spilt) 

Then  he  lowers  down  the  point,  and  kisses  the  hilt. 

Your  ladyship  smiles,  and  thus  you  begin  : 

'Pray,  captain,  be  pleased  to  alight  and  walk  in.' 

The  captain  salutes  you  with  congee  profound, 

And  your  ladyship  curtsies  half  way  to  the  ground. 

'  Kit,  run  to  your  master,  and  bid  him  come  to  us  ; 

I'm  sure  he'll  be  proud  of  the  honour  you  do  us. 

And  captain,  you'll  do  us  the  favor  to  stay, 

And  take  a  short  dinner  here  with  us  to-day ; 

You're  heartily  welcome  ;  but  as  for  good  cheer, 

You  come  in  the  very  worst  time  of  the  year. 

If  I  had  expected  so  worthy  a  guest ' 

'  Lord,  madam  !  your  ladyship  sure  is  in  jest ; 

You  banter  me,  madam,  the  kingdom  must  grant — ' 

'  You  officers,  captain,  are  so  complaisant.' " 

"  Hist,  hussy,  I  think  I  hear  somebody  coming  !  " 

"  No,  madam,  'tis  only  Sir  Arthur  a-humming. 

To  shorten  my  tale  (for  I  hate  a  long  story) 

The  captain  at  dinner  appears  in  his  glory  ; 

The  dean  and  the  doctor  have  humbled  their  pride, 

For  the  captain's  entreated  to  sit  by  your  side  ; 

And,  because  he's  their  betters,  you  carve  for  him  first, 

The  parsons  for  envy  are  ready  to  burst  ; 

The  servants  amazed  are  scarce  ever  able 

To  keep  off  their  eyes  as  they  wait  at  the  table 

And  Molly  and  I  have  thrust  in  our  nose 

To  peep  at  the  captain  in  all  his  fine  clo'es ; 

Dear  madam,  be  sure  he's  a  fine  spoken  man, 

Do  but  hear  on  the  clergy  how  glib  his  tongue  ran  j 


(p  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

And  '  Madam,'  says  he,  '  if  such  dinners  you  give, 
You'll  ne'er  want  for  parsons  as  long  as  you  live ; 
I  ne'er  knew  a  parson  without  a  good  nose, 
But  the  devil's  as  welcome  wherever  he  goes; 

,  they  bid  us  reform  and  repent, 

j5ut  z — s  by  their  lo'oks  they  never  keep  Lent ; 
Mister  Curate,  for  all  your  grave  looks,  I'm  afraid 
You  cast  a  sheep's  eye  on  her  ladyship's  maid  ; 
I  wish  she  would  lend  you  her  pretty  white  hand 
In  mending  your  cassock,  and  smoothing  your  band ; ' 
(For  the  dean  was  so  shabby,  and  look'd  like  a  ninny, 
That  the  captain  supposed  he  was  curate  to  Jinny) 
'  Whenever  you  see  a  cassock  and  gown, 
A  hundred  to  one  but  it  covers  a  clown  ; 
Observe  how  a  parson  comes  into  a  room, 

,  he  hobbles  as  bad  as  my  groom  ; 

A  scholard,  when  just  from  his  college  broke  loose, 

Can  hardly  tell  how  to  cry  Bo  to  a  goose  ; 

Your  JV<n>ids,  and  Blutiirks,  and  Omurs,  and  stuff, 

By ,  they  don't  signify  this  pinch  of  snuff. 

To  give  a  young  gentleman  right  education, 
The  Army's  the  only  good  school  in  the  nation ; 
My  schoolmaster  call'd  me  a  dunce  and  a  fool, 
But  at  cuffs  I  was  always  the  cock  of  the  school ; 
I  never  could  take  to  my  book  for  the  blood  o'  me, 
And  the  puppy  confess'd  he  expected  no  good  of  me. 
He  caught  me  one  morning  coquetting  his  wife, 
And  he  maul'd  me  ;  I  ne'er  was  so  maul'd  in  my  life; 
So  I  took  to  the  road,  and,  what's  very  odd, 

The  first  man  I  robb'd  was  a  parson,  by  G . 

Now,  madam,  you'll  think  it  a  strange  thing  to  say, 
But  the  sight  of  a  book  makes  me  sick  to  this  day.' 

"  Never  since  I  was  born  did  I  hear  so  much  wit, 
And,  madam,  I  laugh'd  till  I  thought  I  should  split. 
So  then  you  look'd  scornful,  and  snift  at  the  dean, 
As  who  should  say,  ATow,  am  I  skinny  and  lean  ? 
But  he  durst  not  so  much  as  once  open  his  lips, 
And  the  doctor  was  plaguily  down  in  the  hips." 

Thus  merciless  Hannah  ran  on  in  her  talk, 
Till  she  heard  the  dean  call,  "  Will  your  ladyship  walk?  " 
Her  ladyship  answers,  "  I'm  just  coming  down," 
Then  turning  to  Hannah,  and  forcing  a  frown, 
Altho'  it  was  plain  in  her  heart  she  was  glad, 
Cried,  "  Hussy,  why  sure  the  wench  has  gone  mad; 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

How  could  these  chimeras  get  into  your  brains! 
Come  hither,  and  take  this  old  gown  for  your  pains. 
But  the  dean,  if  this  secret  should  come  to  his  ears, 
"Will  never  have  done  with  his  jibes  and  his  jeers. 
For  your  life  not  a  word  of  the  matter,  I  charge  ye, 
Give'  me  but  a  barrack ;  a  fig  for  the  clergy." 

Jonathan  Swift. 


CXXII. 

To  MRS.  MARTHA  BLOUNT. 
Sent  on  her  Birth- Day. 

O  BE  thou  blest  with  all  that  heaven  can  send, 

Long  health,  long  youth,  long  pleasure  and  a  friend? 

Not  with  those  toys  the  female  race  admire, 

Riches  that  vex,  and  vanities  that  tire. 

Not  as  the  world  its  petty  slaves  rewards, 

A  youth  of  frolics,  an  old  age  of  cards  ; 

Fair  to  no  purpose,  artful  to  no  end ; 

Young  without  lovers,  old  without  a  friend  ; 

A  fop  their  passion,  but  their  prize  a  sot ; 

Alive,  ridiculous, — and  dead,  forgot ! 

Let  joy  or  ease,  let  affluence  or  content, 
And  the  gay  conscience  of  a  life  well  spent, 
Calm  every  thought,  inspirit  every  grace, 
Glow  in  thy  heart,  and  smile  upon  thy  face  ; 
Let  day  improve  on  day,  and  year  on  year, 
Without  a  pain,  a  trouble,  or  a  fear  ; 
Till  death  unfelt  that  tender  frame  destroy, 
In  some  soft  dream,  or  ecstasy  of  joy ; 
Peaceful  sleep  out  the  Sabbath  of  the  tomb, 
And  wake  to  raptures  in  a  life  to  come  ! 

Alexander  Pope. 


CXXII  I. 

PR'YTHEE,  Chloe,  not  so  fast, 
Let's  not  run  and  wed  in  haste ; 
We've  a  thousand  things  to  do, 
You  must  fly,  and  I  pursue ; 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

You  must  frown,  and  I  must  sigh  ; 
I  entreat,  and  you  deny, 
Stay — if  I  am  never  crost, 
Half  the  pleasure  will  be  lost. 

Be,  or  seem  to  be  severe, 
Give  me  reason  to  despair  ; 
Fondness  will  my  wishes  cloy, 
Make  me  careless  of  the  joy. 
Lovers  may,  of  course,  complain 
Of  their  trouble,  and  their  pain ; 
But  if  pain  and  trouble  cease, 
Love  without  it  will  not  please. 

Unknown. 


cxxiv. 
DR.  DELANY'S  VILLA. 

WOULD  you  that  Delville  I  describe  ? 
Believe  me,  sir,  I  will  not  gibe  : 
For  who  could  be  satirical, 
Upon  a  thing  so  very  small  ? 

You  scarce  upon  the  borders  enter, 
Before  you're  at  the  very  centre. 
A  single  crow  can  make  it  night, 
When  o'er  your  farm  she  takes  her  flight: 
Yet  in  this  narrow  compass,  we 
Observe  a  vast  variety ; 
Both  walks,  walls,  meadows,  and  parterres, 
Windows,  and  doors,  and  rooms,  and  stairs, 
And  hills,  and  dales,  and  woods  and  fields, 
And  hay,  and  grass,  and  corn,  it  yields; 
All  to  your  haggard  brought  so  cheap  in, 
Without  the  mowing  or  the  reaping  : 
A  razor,  tho'  to  say't  I'm  loath. 
Would  shave  you  and  your  meadows  both. 

Tho'  small's  the  farm,  yet  here's  a  house 
Full  large  to  entertain  a  mouse  ; 
But  where  a  rat  is  dreaded  more 
Than  savage  Caledonian  boar ; 
For,  if  it's  enter'd  by  a  rat, 
There  is  no  room  to  bring  a  cat 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 


93 


A  little  rivulet  seems  to  steal 
Down  thro'  a  thing  you  call  a  vale, 
Like  tears  adown  a  wrinkled  cheek, 
Like  rain  along  a  blade  of  leek : 
And  this  you  call  your  sweet  meander. 
Which  might  be  suck'd  up  by  a  gander, 
Could  he  but  force  his  nether  bill 
To  scoop  the  channel  of  the  rill. 
For  sure  you'd  make  a  mighty  clutter. 
Were  it  as  big  as  city  gutter. 

Next  come  I  to  your  kitchen  garden, 
Where  one  poor  mouse  would  fare  but  hard  in; 
And  round  this  garden  is  a  walk, 
No  longer  than  a  tailor's  chalk  ; 
Thus  I  compare  what  space  is  in  it, 
A  snail  creeps  round  it  in  a  minute. 
One  lettuce  makes  a  shift  to  squeeze 
Up  thro'  a  tuft  you  call  your  trees  ; 
And,  once  a  year,  a  single  rose 
Peeps  from  the  bud,  but  never  blows  ; 
In  vain  then  you  expect  its  bloom  ! 
It  cannot  blow  for  want  of  room. 

In  short,  in  all  your  boasted  seat, 
There's  nothing  but  yourself  that's  GREAT. 

Dr.  Thomas  Sheridan. 


ON   THE    LITTLE    HOUSE    BY   THE   CHURCH- YARD   OF 
CASTLENOCK. 

WHOEVER  pleaseth  to  enquire 
Why  yonder  steeple  wants  a  spire, 
The  grey  old  fellow,  poet  Joe, 
The  philosophic  cause  will  show. 
Once  on  a  time,  a  western  blast 
At  least  twelve  inches  overcast, 
Reckoning  roof,  weathercock  and  ill, 
Which  came  with  a  prodigious  fall, 
And  tumbling  topsy-turvy  round, 
Lit  with  its  bottom  on  the  ground, 


94 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 


For  by  the  laws  of  gravitation 
It  fell'into  its  proper  station. 

This  is  the  little  strutting  pile 
You  see  just  by  the  churchyard  stile  : 
The  walls  in  tumbling  gave  a  knock, 
And  thus  the  steeple  gave  a  shock  : 
From  whence  the  neighboring  farmer  calls, 
The  steeple,  Knock  :  the  Vicar,  Walls. 

The  vicar  once  a  week  creeps  in, 
Sits  with  his  knees  up  to  his  chin  ; 
1  [ere  cons  his  note,  and  takes  a  whet, 
Till  the  small  ragged  flock  is  met. 

A  traveller  who  by  did  pass, 
Observed  the  roof  behind  the  grass, 
On  tiptoe  stood  and  rear'd  his  snout, 
And  saw  the  parson  creeping  out  ; 
Was  much  surprised  to  see  a  crow 
Venture  to  build  his  nest  so  low. 

A  schoolboy  ran  unto't,  and  thought 
The  crib  was  down,  the  blackbird  caught 
A  third,  who  lost  his  way  by  night, 
Was  forced  for  safety  to  alight, 
And  stepping  o'er  the  fabric-roof, 
His  horse  had  like  to  spoil  his  hoof. 
Warburton  took  it  in  his  noddle, 
This  building  was  design'd  a  model 
Or  of  a  pigeon-house,  or  oven, 
To  bake  one  loaf,  and  keep  one  dove  in. 
Then  Mrs.  Johnson  gave  her  verdict, 
And  every  one  was  pleased  that  heard  it. 
All  that  you  make  this  stir  about 
Is  but  a  still  which  wants  a  spout, 
The  Rev.  Ur.  Raymond  guess'd 
More  probably  than  all  the  rest  ; 
He  said,  but  that  it  wanted  room, 
It  might  have  been  a  pigmy's  tomb. 
The  doctor's  family  came  by, 
And  little  miss  began  to  cry, 
Give  me  that  house  in  my  own  hand ! 
Then  madam  bade  the  chariot  stand, 
Call'd  to  the  clerk,  in  manner  mild, 
Pray  reach  that  thing  here  to  the  child ; 
That  thing,  I  mean,  among  the  kale, 
And  here's  to  buy  a  pot  of  ale. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  95 

The  clerk  said  to  her,  in  a  heat, 
What,  sell  my  master's  country  seat, 
Where  he  comes  every  week  from  town, 
He  would  not  sell  it  for  a  crown  ? 
Poh,  fellow,  keep  not  such  a  pother. 
In  half-an-hour  thou'lt  make  another. 
Says  Nancy,  I  can  make  for  miss 
A  finer  house  ten  times  than  this, 
The  Dean  will  give  me  willow-sticks, 
And  Joe  my  apron  full  of  bricks. 

Jonathan  Swift. 


CXXVT. 
A   RONDELAY. 

MAN  is  for  woman  made, 
And  woman  made  for  man : 

As  the  spur  is  for  the  jade, 

As  the  scabbard  for  the  blade, 
As  for  liquor  is  the  can, 

So  man's  for  woman  made, 
And  woman  made  for  man. 

As  the  sceptre  to  be  sway'd, 
As  to  night  the  serenade, 
As  for  pudding  is  the  pan, 
As  to  cool  us  is  the  fan, 
So  man's  for  woman  made. 
And  woman  made  for  man. 

Be  she  widow,  wife,  or  maid, 
Be  she  wanton,  be  she  staid, 
Be  she  well  or  ill  array'd, 
*  *  * 

So  man's  for  woman  made, 
And  woman  made  for  man. 


Peter  A.  Moiteux. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 


CXXVII. 

THE  BRACELET. 

WHY  I  tie  about  thy  wrist, 
Julia,  this  my  silken  twist, 
For  what  other  reason  is't 

But  to  show  thee  how,  in  part, 

Thou  my  pretty  captive  art  ? 

—  But  thy  bond-slave  is  my  heart. 

'Tis  but  silk  that  bindeth  thee, 
Snap  the  thread,  and  thou  art  free, 
But  'tis  otherwise  with  me  : 

I  am  bound,  and  fast  bound,  so 
That  from  thee  I  cannot  go  : 
If  I  could  I  would  not  so  ! 


Thomas  Herrick. 


CXXVIII. 

ON  A  GIRDLE. 

THAT  which  her  slender  waist  confined, 
Shall  now  my  joyful  temples  bind  ; 
No  monarch  but  would  give  his  crown 
His  arms  might  do  what  this  has  done. 

It  was  my  Heaven's  extremest  sphere, 
The  pale  which  held  that  lovely  dear. 
My  joy,  my  grief,  my  hope,  my  love 
Did  all  within  this  circle  move  ! 

A  narrow  compass  !  and  yet  there 
Dwelt  all  that's  good,  and  all  that's  fair; 
Give  me  but  what  this  riband  bound, 
Take  all  the  rest  the  sun  goes  round. 

Edmund  Waller. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  97 

CXXIX. 

To  A   GLOVE. 

Go,  virgin  kid,  with  lambent  kiss, 

Salute  a  virgin's  hand  ; 
Go.  senseless  thing,  and  reap  a  bliss 

Thou  dost  not  understand: 
Go,  for  in  thee,  methinks,  I  find 

(Though  'tis  not  half  so  bright) 
An  emblem  of  her  beauteous  mind, 

By  nature  clad  in  white. 

Securely  thou  may'st  touch  the  fair, 

Whom  few  securely  can  ; 
May'st  press  her  breast,  her  lip,  her  hair, 

Or  wanton  with  her  fan : 
May'st  coach  it  with  her  to  and  fro, 

From  masquerade  to  plays  ; 
Ah  !  couldst  thou  hither  come  and  go, 

To  tell  me  what  she  says  1 

Go  then,  and  when  the  morning  cold 

Shall  nip  her  lily  arm, 
Do  thou  (oh,  might  I  be  so  bold!) 

With  kisses  make  it  warm. 
But  when  thy  glossy  beauty's  o'er, 

When  all  thy  charms  are  gone, 
Return  to  me,  I'll  love  thee  more 

Than  e'er  I  yet  have  done. 

Unknown. 

cxxx. 

SUSAN'S  COMPLAINT  AND  REMEDY. 

_ 

As  down  in  the  meadows  I  chanced  to  pass, 
O  !  there  I  beheld  a  young  beautiful  lass  : 
Her  age,  I  am  sure,  it  was  scarcely  fifteen  ; 
And  she  on  her  head  wore  a  garland  of  green  : 
Her  lips  were  like  rubies  ;  and  as  for  her  eyes, 
They  sparkled  like  diamonds,  or  stars  in  the  skies 
And,  as  for  her  voice,  it  was  charming  and  clear, 
As  sadly  she  sung  for  the  loss  of  her  dear. 


gg  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

"  Why  does  my  loved  Billy  prove  false  and  unkind, 
Ah  !  why  does  he  change,  like  the  wavering  wind, 
From  one  that  is  loyal  in  every  degree  ? 
Ah  !  why  does  he  change  to  another  from  me  ? 
Of  does  he  take  pleasure  to  torture  me  so? 
Or  does  he  delight  in  my  sad  overthrow? 
Susannah  will  always  prove  true  to  her  trust, 
Tis  pity,  loved  Billy  should  be  so  unjust. 

In  the  meadows  as  we  were  a  making  of  hay, 
There,  there  did  we  pass  the  soft  minutes  away; 

0  then  was  I  kiss'd,  as  I  sat  on  his  knee, 
No  man  in  the  world  was  so  loving  as  he. 

And  as  he  went  forth  to  hoe,  harrow,  and  plough, 

1  milk'd  him  sweet  syllabubs  under  my  cow  ; 
O  then  I  was  kiss'd,  as  I  sat  on  his  knee, 
No  man  in  the  world  was  so  loving  as  he. 

But  now  he  has  left  me,  and  Fanny,  the  fair, 
Employs  all  his  wishes,  his  thoughts,  and  his  care ; 
And  he  kisses  her  lips,  and  she  sits  on  his  knee, 
As  he  says  all  the  soft  things  he  once  said  to  me. 
But  if  she  believe  him,  the  false-hearted  swain 
Will  leave  her,  and  then  she  with  me  may  complain. 
For  nought  is  more  certain  (believe,  silly  Sue), 
Who  once  has  been  faithless,  can  never  be  true." 

She  finished  her  song,  and  rose  up  to  be  gone, 
When  over  the  meadow  came  jolly  young  John ; 
Who  told  her  that  she  was  the  joy  of  his  life, 
And,  if  she'd  consent,  he  would  make  her  his  wife; 
She  could  not  refuse  him,  to  church  so  they  went, 
Young  Billy's  forgot,  and  young  Susan's  content. 
Most  men  are  like  Billy,  most  women  like  Sue  ; 
If  men  will  be  false,  why  should  women  be  true  ? 

Unknown. 

CXXXL 

ANSWER  TO  THE  FOLLOWING  QUESTION  OF  MRS.  HOWE 

WHAT  is  Prudery  ?    Tis  a  beldam, 
Seen  with  wit  and  beauty  seldom. 
'Tis  a  fear  that  starts  at  shadows. 
'Tis  (no  'tisn't)  like  Miss  Meadows. 


99 


LYRA   ELEGANT/ARUM. 

'Tis  a  virgin  hard  of  feature, 
Old,  and  void  of  all  good-nature  ; 
Lean  and  fretful  ;  would  seem  wise  ; 
Yet  plays  the  fool  before  she  dies, 
'Tis  an  ugly  envious  shrew 
That  rails  at  dear  Lepell  and  you. 

Alexander  Pope. 


WHAT  is  PRUDENCE? 

PRUDENCE,  Sir  William,  is  a  jewel — 
Is  clothes,  and  meat,  and  drink,  and  fuel  ! 
Prudence  !  for  man  the  very  best  of  wives, 
Whom  bards  have  seldom  met  with  in  their  lives  ; 
Which  certes  does  account  for  in  some  measure, 
Their  grievous  want  of  worldly  treasure, 
On  which  the  greatest  blockheads  make  their  brags, 
And  sheweth  why  we  see,  instead  of  lace 
About  the  poet's  back,  with  little  grace, 
Those  fluttering,  French-like  followers — call'd  rags. 

Prudence,  a  sweet  obliging,  curtsying  lass, 
Fit  through  this  hypocritic  world  to  pass  1 
Who  kept  at  first  a  little  peddling  shop, 
Swept  her  own  room,  twirled  her  own  mop, 
Wash'd  her  own  clothes,  caught  her  own  fleas, 
And  rose  to  fame  and  fortune  by  degrees  ; 
Who,  when  she  enter'd  other  people's  houses, 
'Till  spoke  to  was  as  silent  as  a  mouse  is  ; 
And  of  opinions  tho'  possess'd  a  store, 
She  left  them  with  her  pattens— at  the  door. 

John  Wo! cot. 

CXXXIII. 

SONG  BY  A  PERSON  OF  QUALITY. 

I  SAID  to  my  heart,  between  sleeping  and  waking, 
Thou  wild  thing,  that  always  art  leaping  or  aching, 
What  black,  brown,  or  fair,  in  what  clime,  in  what  nation, 
By  turns  has  not  taught  thee  a  pit-a-pat-ation  ? 


00  LYRA  ELEGANT1ARUM. 

Thus  accused,  the  wild  thing  gave  this  sober  replv  : — 
See  the  heart  without  motion,  though  Celia  pass  by  ! 
Not  the  beauty  she  has,  or  the  wit  that  she  borrows, 
Give  the  eye  any  joys,  or  the  heart  any  sorrows. 

When  our  Sappho  appears,  she  whose  wit's  so  refined, 
I  am  forced  to  applaud  witli  the  rest  of  mankind  ; 
Whatever  she  says,  is  with  spirit  and  fire  ; 
Every  word  I  attend ;   but  I  only  admire. 

Pruclentia  as  vainly  would  put  in  her  claim, 
Ever  gazing  on  heaven,  tho'  man  is  her  aim  : 
'Tis  love,  not  devotion,  that  turns  up  her  eyes ; 
Those  stars  of  the  world  are  too  good  for  the  skies. 

But  Chloe  so  lively,  so  easy,  so  fair, 
Her  wit  so  genteel,  without  art,  without  care  ; 
When  she  comes  in  my  way,  the  emotion,  the  pain, 
The  leapings,  the  achings,  return  all  again. 

O  wonderful  creature  !  a  woman  of  reason  ! 
Never  grave  out  of  pride,  never  gay  out  of  season  ! 
When  so  easy  to  guess  who  this  angel  should  be, 
Would  one  think  Mrs.  Howard  ne'er  dreamt  it  was  she  ? 

Lord  Peterborough. 


THE  LOVER'S  CHOICE. 

you,  Damon,  covet  to  possess 
The  nymph  that  sparkles  in  her  dress  ; 
Would  rustling  silks  and  hoops  invade, 
And  clasp  an  armful  of  brocade. 

Such  raise  the  price  of  your  delight 
Who  purchase  both  their  red  and  white, 
And,  pirate-like  surprise  your  heart 
With  colors  of  adulterate  art. 

Me,  Damon,  me  the  maid  enchants 
Whose  cheeks  the  hand  of  nature  paints  ; 
A  modest  blush  adorns  her  face, 
Her  air  an  unaffected  grace. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  IOI 

No  art  she  knows,  or  seeks  to  know ; 
No  charm  to  wealthy  pride  will  owe  ; 
No  gems,  no  gold  she  needs  to  wear  ; 
She  shines  intrinsically  fair. 

William  Bedingfield. 

cxxxv. 

AMYNTA. 

MY  sheep  I  neglected,  I  broke  my  sheep-hook, 
And  all  the  gay  haunts  of  my  youth  I  forsook ; 
No  more  for  Amynta  fresh  garlands  I  wove  ; 
For  ambition,  I  said,  would  soon  cure  me  of  love. 

O,  what  had  my  youth  with  ambition  to  do  ? 
Why  left  I  Amynta  ?  why  broke  I  my  vow  ? 
O,  give  me  my  sheep,  and  my  sheep-hook  restore, 
And  I'll  wander  from  love  and  Amynta  no  more. 

Through  regions  remote  in  vain  do  I  rove, 
And  bid  the  wide  ocean  secure  me  from  love ! 
O,  fool !  to  imagine  that  aught  could  subdue 
A  love  so  well  founded,  a  passion  so  true  1 

Alas,  'tis  too  late  at  thy  fate  to  repine  ; 
Poor  Shepherd,  Amynta  can  no  more  be  thine  ; 
Thy  tears  are  all  fruitless,  thy  wishes  are  vain, 
The  moments  neglected  return  not  again. 

Sir  Gilbert  Elliot. 

cxxxvr. 

STREPHON,  when  you  see  me  fly, 
Why  should  that  your  fear  create  ? 

Maids  may  be  as  often  shy, 
Out  of  love,  as  out  of  hate  : 

When  from  you  I  fly  away, 

'Tis  because  I  fear  to  stay. 

Did  I  out  of  hatred  run 

Less  would  be  my  pain  and  care  ; 

But  the  youth  I  love  to  shun  ! 
Who  could  such  a  trial  bear? 

Who,  that  such  a  swain  did  see, 

Who  could  love,  and  fly,  like  me. 


102  LYRA  ELEGANT/ARUM. 

Cruel  duty  bids  me  go ; 

Gentle  love  commands  my  stay; 
Duty  still  to  love  a  foe ; 

Shall  I  this  or  that  obey? 
Duty  frowns,  and  Cupid  smiles, 
That  defends,  and  this  beguiles. 

Ever  by  this  crystal  stream, 

I  could  sit  and  see  thee  sigh, 
Ravish'd  with  this  pleasing  dream, 

O,  'tis  worse  than  death  to  fly ! 
But  the  danger  is  so  great, 
Fear  gives  wings  instead  of  feet. 

If  you  love  me,  Strephon,  leave  me; 

If  you  stay,  I  am  undone  ; 
O,  you  may  with  ease  deceive  me; 

Pr'ythee,  charming  boy,  begone : 
The  gods  decree,  that  we  must  part  ; 
They  have  my  vow,  but  you  my  heart. 

Unknown. 


CXXXVII. 

WHAT  is  A  WOMAN  LIKE? 

A  WOMAN  is  like  to — but  stay — 
What  a  woman  is  like,  who  can  say  ? 
There  is  no  living  with  or  without  one — 

Love  bites  like  a  fly, 

Now  an  ear,  now  an  eye, 
Buz,  buz,  always  buzzing  about  one, 

When  she's  tender  and  kind 

She  is  like,  to  my  mind, 
(And  Fanny  was  so,  I  remember), 

She's  like  to — O  dear  ! 

She's  as  good,  very  near, 
As  a  ripe  melting  peach  in  September. 

If  she  laugh,  and  she  chat, 

Play,  joke,  and  all  that, 
And  with  smiles  and  good  humor  she  meet  me, 

She's  like  a  rich  dish 

Of  venison  or  fish, 
That  cries  from  the  table,  Come  eat  me ! 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

But  she'll  plague  you,  and  vex  you, 
Distract  and  perplex  you  ; 
False-hearted  and  ranging, 
Unsettled  and  changing, 
What  then  do  you  think,  she  is  like  ? 

Like  a  sand  ?  like  a  rock  ? 

Like  a  wheel  ?  like  a  clock? 
Ay,  a  clock^hat  is  always  at  strike. 
Her  head's  like  the  island  folks  tell  on, 
Which  nothing  but  monkeys  can  dwell  on ; 
Her  heart's  like  a  lemon — so  nice 
She  carves  for  each  lover  a  slice ; 

In  truth  she's  to  me, 

Like  the  wind,  like  the  sea, 
Whose  raging  will  hearken  to  no  man; 

Like  a  mill,  like  a  pill, 

Like  a  flail,  like  a  whale, 

Like  an  ass,  like  a  glass 
Whose  image  is  constant  to  no  man  ; 

Like  a  shower,  like  a  flower, 

Like  a  fly,  like  a  pie, 

Like  a  pea,  like  a  flea, 

Like  a  thief,  like — in  brief, 
She's  like  nothing  on  earth — but  a  woman ! 

Unknown. 


cxxxvnr. 

THE  TOWN  AND  COUNTRY  MOUSE. 
A  Fragment. 

ONCE  on  a  time,  so  runs  the  fable, 
A  country  mouse,  right  hospitable, 
Received  a  town  mouse  at  his  board, 
Just  as  a  farmer  might  a  lord. 
A  frugal  mouse,  upon  the  whole, 
Yet  loved  his  friend,  and  had  a  soul, 
Knew  what  was  handsome,  and  could  do't, 
On  just  occasion,   "  conte  qite  coute" 
He  brought  him  bacon,  nothing  lean, 
Pudding,  that  might  have  pleased  a  Dean  ; 
Cheese,  such  as  men  in  Suffolk  make, 
But  wish'd  it  Stilton  for  his  sake  ; 


103 


104  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

Yet,  to  his  guest  though  no  ways  sparing, 

He  ate  himself  the  rind  and  paring. 

Our  courtier  scarce  could  touch  a  bit, 

But  show'd  his  breeding  and  his  wit ; 

He  did  his  best  to  seem  to  eat, 

And  cried,  "  I  vow,  you're  mighty  neat. 

"  But  Lord,  my  friend,  this  savage  scene  ! 

"  For  God's  sake,  come  and  live  with  men  : 

"  Consider,  mice,  like  men,  must  die, 

"  Both  small  and  great,  both  you  and  I  ; 

"  Then  spend  your  life  in  joy  and  sport, 

"  (This  doctrine,  friend,  I  learnt  at  court)." 

The  veriest  hermit  in  the  nation 

May  yield,  God  knows,  to  strong  temptation. 

Away  they  came,  through  thick  and  thin, 

To  a  tall  house  near  Lincoln's-Inn : 

( 'Twas  on  the  night  of  a  debate, 

When  all  their  Lordships  had  sat  late). 

Behold  the  place,  where  if  a  poet 
Shined  in  description,  he  might  show  it ; 
Tell  how  the  moonbeam  trembling  falls, 
And  tips  with  silver  all  the  walls  ; 
Palladian  walls,  Venetian  doors, 
Grotesco  roofs,  and  stucco  floors  : 
But  let  it,  in  a  word,  be  said, 
The  moon  was  up,  and  men  a-bed, 
The  napkins  white,  the  carpet  red  : 
The  guests  withdrawn  had  left  the  treat, 
And  down  the  mice  sat,  t$te-a-t£te. 

Our  courtier  walks  from  dish  to  dish, 
Tastes  for  his  friend  of  fowl  and  fish  ; 
Tells  all  their  names,  lays  down  the  law, 
"  Que  fa  est  bon  !     Ah  gmitez  fa  ! 
"  That  jelly's  rich,  this  Malmsey's  healing, 
'  Pray  dip  your  whiskers,  and  your  tail  in." 
Was  ever  such  a  happy  swain  ? 
He  stuffs,  and  swills,  and  stuffs  again. 
"  I'm  quite  asham'd — 'tis  mighty  rude 
"  To  eat  so  much — but  all's  so  good. 
'  I  have  a  thousand  thanks  to  give — 
"  My  Lord  alone  knows  how  to  live." 
No  sooner  said,  than  from  the  hall 
Rush  chaplain,  butler,  dogs  and  all  : 
"A  rat,  a  rat !  clap  to  the  door" — 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  105 

The  cat  comes  bouncing  on  the  floor. 

O  for  the  heart  of  Homer's  mice, 

Or  gods  to  save  them  in  a  trice  I 

"  An't  please  your  honor,"  quoth  the  peasant, 

"  This  same  dessert  is  not  so  pleasant  ; 

"  Give  me  again  my  hollow  tree, 

"  A  crust  of  bread,  and  liberty !  " 

Alexander  Pope. 

CXXXIX. 

THE  ENTAIL. 

IN  a  fair  summer's  radiant  morn 
A  Butterfly,  divinely  born, 
Whose  lineage  dated  from  the  mud 
Of  Noah's  or  Deucalion's  flood, 
Long  hovering  round  a  perfumed  lawn, 
By  various  gusts  of  odour  drawn, 
At  last  establish'd  his  repose 
On  the  rich  bosom  of  a  Rose. 

The  palace  pleased  the  lordly  guest  ; 
What  insect  owned  a  prouder  nest? 
The  dewy  leaves  luxurious  shed 
Their  balmy  odours  o'er  his  head, 
And  with  their  silken  tap'stry  fold 
His  limbs  enthroned  on  central  gold, 
He  thinks  the  thorns  embattled  round 
To  guard  his  lovely  castle's  mound, 
And  all  the  bushes'  wide  domain 
Subservient  to  his  fancied  reign. 

Such  ample  blessings  swell'd  the  Fly, 
Yet  in  his  mind's  capacious  eye, 
He  roll'd  the  change  of  mortal  things  ; 
The  common  fate  of  Flies  and  Kings. 
With  grief  he  saw  how  lands  and  honors 
Are  apt  to  slide  to  various  owners  ; 
Where  Mowbrays  dwelt,  now  grocers  dwell, 
And  how  Cits  buy  what  Barons  sell. 
"  Great  Phoebus,  Patriarch  of  my  line, 
Avert  such  shame  from  sons  of  thine  ! 
To  them  confirm  these  roofs,"  he  said  ; 
And  then  he  swore  an  oath  so  dread, 


I06  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

The  stoutest  wasp  that  wears  a  sword 
Had  trembled  to  have  heard  the  word  I 
"  If  Law  can  rivet  down  Entails, 
These  manors  ne'er  shall  pass  to  Snails, 
I  swear" — and  then  he  smote  his  ermine — 
"  These  towers  were  never  built  for  vermin." 

A  Caterpillar  grovell'd  near, 

A  subtle  slow  Conveyancer, 

Who,  summoned,  waddles,  with  his  quill 

To  draw  the  haughty  Insect's  will. 

None  but  his  heirs  must  own  the  spot, 

Begotten,  or  to  be  begot ; 

Each  leaf  he  binds,  each  bud  he  ties 

To  eggs  of  eggs  of  Butterflies. 

When  lo  !  how  Fortune  loves  to  tease    . 
Those  who  would  dictate  her  decrees  I 
A  wanton  boy  was  passing  by  ; 
The  wanton  child  beheld  the  Fly 
And  eager  ran  to  seize  the  prey — 
But,  too  impetuous  in  his  play, 
Crush'd  the  proud  tenant  of  an  hour, 
And  swept  away  the  Mansion-flower. 

Horace  Walfole,  Earl  of  Orford. 


ON  A  HALFPENNY  WHICH  A  YOUNG  LADY  GAVE  A  BEG- 
GAR,    AND    WHICH    THE    AUTHOR     REDEEMED     FOR 

HALF-A-CROWN. 

DEAR  little,  pretty,  favourite  ore, 

That  once  increased  Gloriana's  store; 

That  lay  within  her  bosom  blest, 

Gods  might  have  envied  thee  thy  rest ! 

I've  read,  imperial  Jove  of  old 

For  love  transform'd  himself  to  gold : 

And  why  for  a  more  lovely  lass 

May  he  not  now  have  lurk'd  in  brass  ? 

O,  rather  than  from  her  he'd  part 

He'd  shut  that  charitable  heart, 

That  heart  whose  goodness  nothing  less 

Than  his  vast  power  could  dispossess. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  107 

From  Gloriana's  gentle  touch 
Thy  mighty  value  now  is  such, 
That  thou  to  me  art  worth  alone 
More  than  his  medals  are  to  Sloane. 

Henry  Fielding. 


CXLI. 

I  LATELY  vow'd,  but  'twas  in  haste, 

That  I  no  more  would  court 
The  joys  that  seem  when  they  are  past 

As  dull  as  they  are  short. 

I  oft  to  hate  my  mistress  swear, 

But  soon  my  weakness  find  ; 
I  make  my  oaths  when  she's  severe, 

But  break  them  when  she's  kind. 

John  Oldmixon. 

CXLII. 

ON  BEAU  NASH'S  PICTURE  AT  BATH,  WHICH  ONCE  STOOD 
BETWEEN  THE  BUSTS  OF  NEWTON  AND  POPE. 

THIS  picture  placed  these  busts  between, 

Gives  satire  its  full  strength; 
Wisdom  and  wit  are  seldom  seen, 

But  folly  at  full  length. 

Mrs.  Jane  Brereton. 


CXLI  1 1. 

ON  THE  ABOVE  LINES. 

IMMORTAL  Newton  never  spoke 
More  truth  than  here  you'll  find ; 

Nor  Pope  himself  ere  penn'd  a  joke, 
Severer  on  mankind. 

Philip  Stanhofe,  Earl  of  Chesterfield. 


IoS  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

CXLIV. 

ADVICE  TO  A  LADY  IN  AUTUMN. 

ASSES'  milk,  half  a  pint,  take  at  seven,  or  before, 

Then  sleep  for  an  hour  or  two,  and  no  more. 

At  nine  stretch  your  arms,  and  oh !  think  when  alone 

There's  no  pleasure  in  bed. — Mar)'  bring  me  my  gown : 

Slip  on  that  ere  you  rise ;  let  your  caution  be  such.; 

Keep  all  cold  from  your  breast,  there's  already  too  much; 

Your  pinners  set  right,  your  twitcher  tied  on, 

Your  prayers  at  an  end,  and  your  breakfast  quite  done, 

Retire  to'some  author  improving  and  gay, 

And  with  sense  like  your  own,  set  your  mind  for  the  day. 

At  twelve  you  may  walk,  for  at  this  time  o'  the  year, 

The  sun,  like  your  wit,  is  as  mild  as  'tis  clear; 

But  mark  in  the  meadows  the  ruin  of  time ; 

Take  the  hint,  and  let  life  be  improved  in  its  prime. 

Return  not  in  haste,  nor  of  dressing  take  heed; 

For  beauty,  like  yours,  no  assistance  can  need. 

With  an  appetite  thus  down  to  dinner  you  sit, 

Where  the  chief  of  the  feast  is  the  flow  of  your  wit : 

Let  this  be  indulged,  and  let  laughter  go  round ; 

As  it  pleases  your  mind  to  your  health  'twill  redound. 

After  dinner  two  glasses  at  least,  I  approve  ; 

Name  the  first  to  the  King,  and  the  last  to  your  love  : 

Thus  cheerful,  with  wisdom,  with  innocence,  gay, 

And  calm  with  your  joys,  gently  glide  through  the  day. 

The  dews  of  the  evening  most  carefully  shun  ; 

Those  tears  of  the  sky  for  the  loss  of  the  sun. 

Then  in  chat,  or  at  play,  with  a  dance,  or  a  song. 

Let  the  night,  like  the  day,  pass  with  pleasure  along. 

All  cares,  but  of  love,  banish  far  from  your  mind; 

And  those  you  may  end,  when  you  please  to  be  kind. 

Philip  Stanhope,  Earl  of  Chesterfield. 

CXLV. 

ON  LORD  ISLAY'S  GARDEN  AT  WHITTON  ON  HOUNSLOVJ 
HEATH. 

OLD  ISLAY,  to  show  his  fine  delicate  taste, 

In  improving  his  garden  purloin'd  from  the  waste ; 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 


109 


Bade  his  gard'ner  one  morning  lay  open  his  views, 
By  cutting  a  couple  of  grand  avenues. 
No  particular  prospect  his  Lordship  intended, 
But  left  it  to  chance  how  his  walks  should  be  ended, 
With  transport  and  joy  he  perceiv'd  his  first  view  end 
In  a  favorite  prospect — a  church  that  was  ruin'd ; 
But  alas  I  what  a  sight  did  the  next  cut  exhibit, 
At  the  end  of  the  walk  hung  a  rogue  on  a  gibbet! 
He  beheld  it  and  wept,  for  it  caused  him  to  muse  on 
Full  many  a  Campbell  that  died  with  his  shoes  on. 
All  amazed  and  aghast  at  the  ominous  scene, 
He  ordered  it  quick  to  be  closed  up  again, 
With  a  clump  of  Scotch  fir  trees  by  way  of  a  screen. 
Philip  Stanhope,  Earl  of  Chesterfidd. 

CXLVI. 

ON  A  WOMAN  OF  FASHION. 

"  THEN,  behind,  all  my  hair  is  done  up  in  a  plat, 
And  so,  like  a  cornet's,  tuck'd  under  my  hat, 
Then  I  mount  on  my  palfrey  as  gay  as  a  lark, 
And,  follow'd  by  John,  take  the  dust  in  High  Park. 
In  the  way  I  am  met  by  some  smart  macaroni, 
Who  rides  by  my  side  on  a  little  bay  pony — 
No  sturdy  Hibernian,  with  shoulders  so  wide, 
But  as  taper  and  slim  as  the  ponies  they  ride; 
Their  legs  are  as  slim,  and  their  shoulders  no  wider. 
Dear  sweet  little  creatures,  both  pony  and  rider ! 

"  But  sometimes,  when  hotter,  I  order  my  chaise, 
And  manage,  myself,  my  two  little  greys  : 
Sure  never  was  seen  two  such  sweet  little  ponies, 
Other  horses  are  clowns,  and  these  macaronies, 
And  to  give  them  this  title  I'm  sure  isn't  wrong, 
Their  legs  are  so  slim,  and  their  tails  are  so  long. 

"  In  Kensington  Gardens  to  stroll  up  and  down, 
You  know  was  the  fashion  before  you  left  town, 
The  thing's  well  enough,  when  allowance  is  made, 
For  the  size  of  the  trees  and  the  depth  of  the  shade, 
But  the  spread  of  their  leaves  such  a  shelter  affords 
To  those  noisy  impertinent  creatures  call'd  birds, 
Whose  ridiculous  chirruping  ruins  the  scene, 
Brings  the  country  before  me,  and  gives  me  the  spleen. 


I0  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

"  Yet,  though  'tis  too  rural — to  come  near  the  mark, 
We  all  herd  in  one  walk,  and  that,  nearest  the  park, 
There  with  ease  we  may  see,  as  we  pass  by  the  wicket, 
The  chimneys  of  Knightsbridge,  and — footmen  at  cricket. 
I  must  though  in  justice,  declare  that  the  grass, 
Which  worn  by  our  feet,  is  diminish'd  apace, 
In  a  little  time  more  will  be  brown  and  as  flat 
As  the  sand  at  Vauxhall,  or  as  Ranelagh  mat. 
Improving  thus  fast,  perhaps,  by  degrees 
We  may  see  rolls  and  butter  spread  under  the  trees, 
With  a  small  pretty  band  in  each  seat  of  the  walk, 
To  play  little  tunes  and  enliven  our  talk." 

Thomas  Tickell. 


CXLVII. 

LAST  Sunday  at  St.  James's  prayers, 

The  prince  and  princess  by, 
I,  drest  in  all  my  whalebone  airs, 

Sat  in  a  closet  nigh. 
I  bow'd  my  knees,  I  held  my  book, 

Read  all  the  answers  o'er  ; 
But  was  perverted  by  a  look, 

Which  pierced  me  from  the  door. 
High  thoughts  of  Heaven  I  came  to  use, 

With  the  devoutest  care; 
Which  gay  young  Strephon  made  me  lose, 

And  all  the  raptures  there. 
He  stood  to  hand  me  to  my  chair, 

And  bow'd  with  courtly  grace; 
But  whisper'd  love  into  my  ear, 

Too  warm  for  that  grave  place. 
"  Love,  love,"  said  he,  "  by  all  adored, 

My  tender  heart  has  won." 
But  I  grew  peevish  at  the  word, 

And  bade  he  would  be  gone. 
He  went  quite  out  of  sight,  while  I 

A  kinder  answer  meant; 
Nor  did  I  for  my  sins  that  day 

By  half  so  much  repent. 

Unknown. 


L  YRA  ELEGA  NTIA  R  UM.  1 1 1 

CXLVIII. 

THE  RETALIATION. 

OF  old,  when  Scarron  his  companions  invited, 

Each  guest  brought  his  dish,  and  the  feast  was  united  ; 

If  our  landlord  supplies  us  with  beef  and  with  fish, 

Let  each  guest  bring  himself,  and  he  brings  a  good  dish: 

Our  Dean  shall  be  venison,  just  fresh  from  the  plains ; 

Our  Burke  shall  be  tongue,  with  a  garnish  of  brains; 

Our  Will  shall  be  wild  fowl,  of  excellent  flavour; 

And  Dick  with  his  pepper  shall  heighten  their  savour ; 

Our  Cumberland's  sweetbread  its  place  shall  obtain, 

And  Douglas  is  pudding,  substantial  and  plain  : 

Our  Garrick  a  salad,  for  in  him  we  see 

Oil,  vinegar,  sugar,  and  saltness  agree : 

To  make  out  the  dinner,  full  certain  I  am 

That  Ridge  is  anchovy,  and  Reynolds  is  lamb  ; 

That  Rickey's  a  capon  ;  and,  by  the  same  rule, 

Magnanimous  Goldsmith  a  gooseberry-fool. 

At  a  dinner  so  various,  at  such  a  repast, 
Who'd  not  be  a  glutton,  and  stick  to  the  last  ? 
Here,  waiter,  more  wine,  let  me  sit  while  I'm  able, 
Till  all  my  companions  sink  under  the  table  ; 
Then,  with  chaos  and  blunders  encircling  my  head, 
Let  me  ponder,  and  tell  what  I  think  of  the  dead. 

Here  lies  the  good  Dean,  reunited  to  earth, 
Who  mix'd  reason  with  pleasure,  and  wisdom  with  mirth; 
If  he  had  any  faults,  he  has  left  us  in  doubt, 
At  least  in  six  weeks  I  could  not  find  them  out; 
Yet  some  have  declared,  and  it  can't  be  denied  them, 
That  Slyboots  was  cursedly  cunning  to  hide  them, 

Here  lies  our  good  Edmund,  whose  genius  was  such, 
We  scarcely  can  praise  it,  or  blame  it  too  much  ; 
Who,  born  for  the  universe,  narrow'd  his  mind. 
And  to  party  gave  up  what  was  meant  for  mankind  : 
Though  fraught  with   all  learning,  yet  straining  his  throat 
To  persuade  Tommy  Townshend  to  lend  him  a  vote  : 
Who,  too  deep  for  his  hearers,  still  went  on  refining, 
And  thought  of  convincing,  while  they  thought  of  dining  : 
Tho'  equal  to  all  things,  for  all  things  unfit, 
Too  nice  for  a  statesman,  too  proud  for  a  wit ; 
For  a  patriot  too  cool  ;  for  a  drudge  disobedient; 
And  too  fond  of  the  right  to  pursue  the  expedient. 


I,2  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

In  short,  'twas  his  fate,  unemploy'd  or  in  place,  Sir, 
To  cat  mutton  cold,  and  cut  blocks  with  a  razor. 

Here  lies  honest  William,  whose  heart  was  a  mint, 
While  the  owner  ne'er  knew  half  the  good  that  was  in't ; 
The  pupil  of  impulse,  it  forced  him  along, 
His  conduct  still  right,  with  his  argument  wrong; 
Still  aiming  at  honor,  yet  fearing  to  roam, 
The  coachman  was  tipsy,  the  chariot  drove  home  : 
Would  you  ask  for  his  merits  ?  alas,  he  had  none  : 
What  was  good  was  sponianeous,  his  faults  were  his  own. 

Here  lies  honest  Richard,  whose  fate  I  must  sigh  at, 
Alas,  that  such  frolic  should  now  be  so  quiet ! 
What  spirits  were  his,  what  wit  and  what  whim, 
Now  breaking  a  jest,  and  now  breaking  a  limb! 
Now  wrangling  and  grumbling  to  keep  up  the  ball, 
Now  teasing  and  vexing,  yet  laughing  at  all ! 
In  short,  so  provoking  a  devil  was  Dick, 
That  we  wish'd  him  full  ten  times  a  day  at  Old  Nick  ; 
15ut,  missing  his  mirth  and  agreeable  vein, 
As  often  we  wish'd  to  have  Dick  back  again. 

Here  Cumberland  lies,  having  acted  his  parts, 
The  Terence  of  England,  the  mender  of  hearts ; 
A  flattering  painter,  who  made  it  his  care 
To  draw  men  as  they  ought  to  be,  not  what  they  are. 
His  gallants  are  all  faultless,  his  women  divine, 
And  Comedy  wonders  at  being  so  fine  ; 
I. ike  a  tragedy-queen  he  has  dizen'd  her  out, 
Or  rather  like  tragedy  giving  a  rout. 
His  fools  have  their  follies  so  lost  in  a  crowd 
Of  virtues  and  feelings,  that  folly  grows  proud; 
And  coxcombs,  alike  in  their  failings  alone, 
Adopting  his  portraits,  are  pleased  with  their  own. 
Say,  where  has  our  poet  this  malady  caught  ? 
Or  wherefore  his  characters  thus  without  fault? 
Say,  was  it,  that  vainly  directing  his  view 
To  find  out  men's  virtues,  and  finding  them  few, 
Quite  sick  of  pursuing  each  troublesome  elf, 
He  grew  lazy  at  last,  and  drew  from  himself  ? 

Here  Douglas  retires  from  his  toils  to  relax, 
The  scourge  of  impostors,  the  terror  of  quacks. 
Come,  all  ye  quack  bards,  and  ye  quacking  divines. 
Come,  ar.d  dance  on  the  spot  where  your  tyrant  reclines. 
When  satire  and  censure  encircled  his  throne, 
I  fear'd  for  your  safety,  I  fear'd  for  my  own ; 


LYRA  ELEGANT/ARUM.  n-j 

But  now  he  is  gone,  and  we  want  a  detector, 

Our  Dodds  shall  be  pious,  our  Kenricks  shall  lecture ; 

Macpherson  write  bombast,  and  call  it  a  style  ; 

Our  Townshend  make  speeches,  and  I  shall  compile ; 

New  Lauders  and  Bowers  the  Tweed  shall  cross  over, 

No  countryman  living  their  tricks  to  discover  : 

Detection  her  taper  shall  quench  to  a  spark. 

And  Scotchman  meet  Scotchman  and  cheat  in  the  dark. 

Here  lies  David  Garrick,  describe  him  who  can  ? 
An  abridgement  of  all  that  was  pleasant  in  man ; 
As  an  actor,  contest  without  rival  to  shine ; 
As  a  wit,  if  not  first,  in  the  very  first  line; 
Yet  with  talents  like  these,  and  an  excellent  heart, 
The  man  had  his  failings,  a  dupe  to  his  art ; 
Like  an  ill-judging  beauty  his  colors  he  spread, 
And  beplaster'd  with  rouge  his  own  natural  red. 
On  the  stage  he  was  natural,  simple,  affecting  : 
'Twas  only  that  when  he  was  off  he  was  acting  ; 
With  no  reason  on  earth  to  go  out  of  his  way, 
He  turn'd  and  he  varied  full  ten  times  a  day  ; 
Tho'  secure  of  our  hearts,  yet  confoundedly  sick 
If  they  were  not  his  own  by  finessing  and  trick; 
He  cast  off  his  friends  as  a  huntsman  his  pack, 
For  he  knew  when  he  pleased  he  could  whistle  them  back. 
Of  praise  a  mere  glutton,  he  swallow'd  what  came,   ' 
And  the  puff  of  a  dunce  he  mistook  it  for  fame ; 
Till  his  relish  grows  callous,  almost  to  disease, 
Who  pepper'd  the  highest  was  surest  to  please. 
But  let  us  be  candid,  and  speak  out  our  mind  : 
If  dunces  applauded,  he  paid  them  in  kind. 
Ye  Kenricks,  ye  Kellys,  and  Woodfalls  so  grave, 
What  a  commerce  was  yours,while  you  got  and  you  gave, 
How  did  Grub-street  re-echo  the  shouts  that  you  raised, 
When  he  was  be-Roscius'd,  and  you  were  bepraisedl 
But  peace  to  his  spirit,  wherever  it  flies, 
To  act  as  an  angel,  and  mix  with  the  skies  ! 
Those  poets  who  owe  their  best  fame  to  his  skill, 
Shall  still  be  his  flatterers,  go  where  he  will ; 
Old  Shakespeare  receive  him  with  praise  and  with  love, 
And  Beamonts  and  Bens  be  his  Kellys  above. 

Here  Hickey  reclines,  a  most  blunt,  pleasant  creature, 
And  Slander  itself  must  allow  him  good-nature  : 
He  cherish'd  his  friend,  and  he  relish'd  a  bumper  : 
Yet  one  fault  he  had,  and  that  one  was  a  thumper. 


,4  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

Perhaps  you  may  ask  if  the  man  was  a  miser  ? 

I  answer  no,  no,  for  he  always  was  wiser. 

Too  courteous,  perhaps,  or  obligingly  flat  ? 

His  very  worst  foe  can't  accuse  him  of  that. 

Perhaps  he  confided  in  men  as  they  go, 

And  so  was  too  foolishly  honest  ?     Ah  no  ! 

Then  what  was  his  failing  ?   Come,  tell  it,  and  burn  ye, — 

He  was,  could  he  help  it?  a  special  attorney. 

Here  Reynolds  is  laid,  and  to  tell  you  my  mind, 
He  has  not  left  a  wiser  or  better  behind  : 
His  pencil  was  striking,  resistless,  and  grand  : 
His  manners  were  gentle,  complying,  and  bland  ; 
Still  born  to  improve  us  in  every  part, 
His  pencil  our  faces,  his  manners  our  heart : 
To  coxcombs  averse,  yet  most  civilly  steering, 
When  they  judged  without  skill  he  was  still  hard  of  hearim;; 
When  they  talked  of  their  Raphaels,  Correggios,  and  stuff, 
Ife  shifted  his  trumpet,  and  only  took  snuff. 

Oliver  Goldsmith. 


CXLIX. 

COME,  come,  my  good  shepherds,  our  flocks  we  must  shear, 
In  your  holiday  suits,  with  your  lasses  appear  ; 
The  happiest  of  folk,  are  the  guiltless  and  free, 
And  who  are  so  guiltless,  so  happy,  as  we  ? 

We  harbor  no  passions,  by  luxury  taught, 

We  practice  no  arts,  with  hypocrisy  fraught ; 

What  we  think  in  our  hearts,  you  may  read  in  our  eyes; 

For  knowing  no  falsehood,  we  need  no  disguise. 

By  mode  and  caprice  are  the  city  dames  led, 

But  we,  as  the  children  of  nature  are  bred  ; 

By  her  hand  alone  we  are  painted  and  dress'd, 

For  the  roses  will  bloom  when  there's  peace  in  the  breast 

That  giant,  Ambition,  we  never  can  dread ; 
Our  roofs  are  too  low  for  so  lofty  a  head ; 
Content  and  sweet  cheerfulness  open  our  door, 
They  smile  with  the  simple,  and  feed  with  the  poor. 

When  love  has  possess'd  us,  that  love  we  reveal : 
.ike  the  flocks  that  we  feed  are  the  passions  we  feel  ; 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  115 

So  harmless  and  simple  we  sport,  and  we  play, 
And  leave  to  fine  folks  to  deceive  and  betray. 

David  Gar  rick. 


CL. 

YE  fair  marrried  dames,  who  so  often  deplore 
That  a  lover  once  blest  is  a  lover  no  more  ; 
Attend  to  my  counsel,  nor  blush  to  be  taught 
That  prudence  must  cherish  what  beauty  has  caught. 

The  bloom  of  your  cheek,  and  the  glance  of  your  eye, 
Your  roses  and  lilies  may  make  the  men  sigh; 
]!ut  roses  and  lilies,  and  sighs  pass  away, 
And  passion  will  die  as  your  beauties  decay. 

Use  the  man  that  you  wed  like  your  fav'rite  guitar, 
Though  music  in  both,  they  are  both  apt  to  jar  ; 
How  tuneful  and  soft  from  a  delicate  touch, — 
Is'ot  handled  too  roughly,  or  play'd  on  too  much  ! 

The  sparrow  and  linnet  will  feed  from  your  hand, 
Grow  tame  at  your  kindness,  and  come  at  command  ; 
Exert  with  your  husband  the  same  happy  skill : 
For  hearts,  like  young  birds,  may  be  tamed  at  your  will. 

Be  gay  and  good-humored,  complying  and  kind, 
Turn  the  chief  of  your  care  from  your  face  to  your  mind ; 
Tis  thus  that  a  wife  may  her  conquests  improve, 
And  Hymen  shall  rivet  the  fetters  of  Love. 

David  Garrick. 

CLT. 

Too  plain,  dear  youth,  these  tell-tale  eyes 

My  heart  your  own  declare; 
But  for  love's  sake  let  it  suffice 

You  reign  triumphant  there. 

Forbear  your  utmost  power  to  try, 

Nor  further  urge  your  sway  ; 
Press  not  for  what  I  must  deny, 

For  fear  I  should  obey. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

Could  all  your  arts  successful  prove, 

Would  you  a  maid  undo, 
Whose  greatest  failing  is  her  love. 

And  that  her  love  for  you? 

Say,  would  you  use  that  very  power 
You  from  her  fondness  claim, 

To  ruin  in  one  fatal  hour 
A  life  of  spotless  fame  ? 

Resolve  not  then  to  do  an  ill, 

Because  perhaps  you  may  ; 
But  rather  use  your  utmost  skill 

To  save  me,  than  betray. 

Be  you  yourself  my  virtue's  guard ; 

Defend,  and  not  pursue  ; 
Since  'tis  a  task  for  me  too  hard 

To  strive  with  love  and  you. 

Soame  Jenyiis. 


CLII. 

A  POETICAL  EPISTLE  TO  LORD  CLARE. 

THANKS,  my  Lord,  for  your  venison — for  finer  or  fatter 

Never  ranged  in  a  forest,  or  smoked  in  a  platter  : 

The  haunch  was  a  picture  for  painters  to  study, 

The  fat  was  so  white,  and  the  lean  was  so  ruddy; 

Though  my  stomach  was  sharp,!  could  scarce  help  regretting 

To  spoil  such  a  delicate  picture  by  eating  : 

I  had  thought,  in  my  chambers,  to  place  it  in  view, 

To  be  shewn  to  my  friends  as  a  piece  of  virtu — 

As  in  some  Irish  houses,  where  things  are  so-so, 

One  gammon  of  bacon  hangs  up  for  a  show ; 

But,  for  eating  a  rasher  of  what  they  take  pride  in, 

They'd  as  soon  think  of  eating  the  pan  it  is  fry'd  in. 

But  hold — let  me  pause — don't  I  hear  you  pronounce 

This  tale  of  the  bacon's  a  damnable  bounce  ; 

Well,  suppose  it  a  bounce — sure  a  poet  may  try, 

By  a  bounce  now  and  then,  to  get  courage  to  fly. 

But,  my  Lord,  it's  no  bounce— I  protest  in  my  turn, 
It's  a  truth — and  your  lordship  may  ask  Mr.  Burn. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  117 

To  go  on  with  my  tale — as  I  gazed  on  the  haunch 

I  thought  of  a  friend  that  was  trusty  and  staunch — 

So  I  cut  it,  and  sent  it  to  Reynolds  undrest, 

To  paint  it,  or  eat  it,  just  as  he  liked  best. 

Of  the  neck  and  the  breast  I  had  next  to  dispose — 

'Twas  a  neck  and  a  breast  that  might  rival  Monroe's : 

But  in  parting  with  these,  I  was  puzzled  again, 

With  the  how,  and  the  who,  and  the  where,  and  the  when. 

There's  H— d,  and  C— y,  and  H— rth,  and  II— ff, 

I  think  they  love  venison — I  know  they  love  beef: 

There's  my  countryman  Higgins O,  let  him  alone, 

For  making  a  blunder,  or  picking  a  bone. 

But  hang  it — to  poets,  who  seldom  can  eat, 

Your  very  good  mutton's  a  very  good  treat; 

Such  dainties  to  them,  their  health  it  might  hurt — 

It's  like  sending  them  ruffles,  when  wanting  a  shirt. 

While  thus  I  debated,  in  reverie  center'd, 

An  acquaintance,  a  friend  as  he  called  himself,  enter'd: 

An  underbred,  fine-spoken  fellow  was  lie, 

And  he  smiled  as  he  look'd  at  the  venison  and  me. 

"  What  have  we  got  here  ? — why  this  is  good  eating  ! 

Your  own,  I  suppose — or  is  it  in  waiting  ?  " 

"  Why,  whose  should  it  be  ?"  cried  I,  with  a  flounce ; 

"  I  get  these  things  often ;  " — but  that  was  a  bounce : 

"  Some  lords,  my  acquaintance,  that  settle  the  nation, 

Are  pleased  to  be  kind — but  I  hate  ostentation." 

"  If  that  be  the  case  then,"  cried  he,  very  gay, 

"  I'm  glad  I  have  taken  this  house  in  my  way :  " 

"  To-morrow  you'll  take  a  poor  dinner  with  me ; 

No  words — I  insist  on't — precisely  at  three  : 

We'll  have  Johnson,  and  Burke,  all  the  wits  will  be  there  ; 

My  acquaintance  is  slight,  or  I'd  ask  my  Lord  Clare, 

And,  now  that  I  think  on't,  as  I  am  a  sinner, 

We  wanted  this  venison  to  make  out  the  dinner, 

What  say  you — a  pasty — it  shall  and  it  must; 

And  my  wife,  little  Kitty,  is  famous  for  crust. 

Here,  porter,  this  venison  with  me  to  Mile-End  ; 

No  stirring,  I  beg — my  dear  friend — my  dear  friend  !  " 

Thus  snatching  his  hat,  he  brushed  off  like  the  wind, 

And  the  porter  and  eatables  followed  behind, 

Left  alone  to  reflect,  having  emptied  my  shelf, 
And  "  nobody  with  me  at  sea  but  myself;  " 
Tho'  I  could  not  help  thinking  my  gentleman  hasty, 
Yet  Johnson,  and  Burke,  and  a  good  venison  pasty, 


I  [g  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

Were  things  that  I  never  disliked  in  my  life, 
Tho'  clogged  with  a  coxcomb,  and  Kitty  his  wife ; 
So  next  day,  in  due  splendor  to  make  my  approach, 
I  drove  to  his  door  in  my  own  hackney  coach. 

When  come  to  the  place  where  we  all  were  to  dine, 
(A  chair-lumber'd  closet  just  twelve  feet  by  nine) 
Mv  friend  bade  me  welcome,  but  struck  me  quite  dumb 
With  tidings  that  Johnson  and  Burke  would  not  come  ; 
"  For  I  knew  it,"  he  cried,  "  both  eternally  fail, 
The  one  with  his  speeches,  and  t'other  with  Thrale; 
But  no  matter,  I'll  warrant  we'll  make  up  the  party 
With  two  full  as  clever,  and  ten  times  as  hearty  ; 
The  one  is  a  Scotchman,  the  other  a  Jew — 
They  both  of  them  merry,  and  authors  like  you; 
The  one  writes  the  Snarler,  the  other  the  Scourge; 
Some  think  he  writes  Cinna — he  owns  to  Panurge." 
While  thus  he  described  them  by  trade  and  by  name, 
They  entered,  and  dinner  was  served  as  they  came. 

At  the  top  a  fried  liver  and  bacon  were  seen, 
At  the  bottom  was  tripe  in  a  swinging  tureen; 
At  the  sides  there  was  spinach  and  pudding  made  hot; 
In  the  middle  a  place  where  the  pasty— was  not. 
Now,  my  Lord,  as  for  tripe,  it's  my  utter  aversion, 
And  your  bacon  I  hate  like  a  Turk  or  a  Persian 
So  there  I  sat  stuck,  like  a  horse  in  a  pound, 
While  the  bacon  and  liver  went  merrily  round ; 
But  what  vex'd  me  most,  was  that  hang'd  Scottish  rogue, 
With  his  long-winded  speeches,  his  smiles,  and  his  brogue, 
And  "  madam,"  quoth  he,  "  may  this  bit  be  my  poison, 
A  prettier  dinner  I  never  set  eyes  on  ; 
Pray  a  slice  of  your  liver,  tho'  may  I  be  curst, 
But  I've  ate  of  your  tripe,  till  I'm  ready  to  burst." 
"The  tripe,"  quoth  the  Jew,  with  his  chocolate  cheek, 
"  I  could  dine  on  th-s  tripe  seven  days  in  a  week: 
I  like  these  here  dinners,  so  pretty  and  small; 
But  your  friend  there,  the  Doctor,  eats  nothing  at  all." 

'  O-oh,"  quoth  my  friend,  "  he'll  come  on  in  a  Vice, 
He  s  keeping  a  corner  for  something  that's  nice  : 
There's  a  pasty  "— "  a  pasty  !  "  repeated  the  Jew ; 

1  I  don't  care  if  I  keep  a  corner  for't  too." 
"  What  the  de'il,  mon.  a  pasty,"  re-echo'd  the  Scot ; 
Though  splitting,  I'll  still  keep  a  corner  for  that." 
"  We'll  all  keep  a  corner,"  the  lady  cried  out ; 
"  We'll  all  keep  a  corner,"  was  echo'd  about. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  119 

While  thus  we  resolved,  and  the  pasty  delay'd, 

With  looks  that  quite  petrified,  enter'd  the  maid ! 

A  visage  so  sad,  and  so  pale  with  affright, 

Waked  Priam  in  drawing  his  curtains  by  night ! 

But  we  quickly  found  out — for  who  could  mistake  her — 

That  she  came  with  some  terrible  news  from  the  baker  ; 

And  so  it  fell  out,  for  that  negligent  sloven 

Had  shut  out  the  pasty  on  shutting  his  oven ! 

Sad  Philomel  thus— but  let  similes  drop — 

And,  now  that  I  think  on't,  the  story  may  stop. 

To  be  plain,  my  good  Lord,  it's  but  labor  misplaced, 

To  send  such  good  verses  to  one  of  your  taste  ;  _ 

You've  got  an  odd  something — a  kind  of  discerning — 

A  relish — a  taste — sicken'd  over  by  learning  ; 

At  least  it's  your  temper,  as  very  well  known, 

That  you  think  very  slightly  of  all  that's  your  own: 

So,  perhaps,  in  your  habit  of  thinking  amiss, 

You  may  make  a  mistake,  and  think  slightly  of  this. 

Oliver  Goldsmith. 


CLIII. 

I  LATELY  thought  no  man  alive 
Could  e'er  improve  past  forty-five, 

And  ventured  to  assert  it. 
The  observation  was  not  new, 
But  seemed  to  me  so  just  and  true 

That  none  could  controvert  it. 

"  No,  sir,"  said  Johnson,  "  'tis  not  so  ; 
Tis  your  mistake,  and  I  can  show 

An  instance,  if  you  doubt  it. 
You,  who  perhaps  are  forty-eight, 
May  still  improve,  'tis  not  too  late  ; 

I  wish  you'd  set  about  it." 

Encouraged  thus  to  mend  my  faults, 
I  turn'd  his  counsel  in  my  thoughts 

Which  way  I  could  apply  it ; 
Genius  I  knew  w'as  past  my  reach, 
For  who  can  learn  what  none  can  teach  ? 

And  wit — I  could  not  buy  it. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIAKUM. 

Then  come,  my  friends,  and  try  your  skill  ; 
You  may  improve  me  if  you  will, 

(.Sly  books  are  at  a  distance)  : 
With  you  I'll  live  and  learn,  and  then 
Instead  of  books  I  shall  read  men, 

So  lend  me  your  assistance. 

Dear  Knight  of  Plympton,  teach  me  how 
To  suffer  with  unclouded  brow, 

And  smile  serene  as  thine, 
The  jest  uncouth  and  truth  severe ; 
Like  thee  to  turn  mv  deafest  ear, 

And  calmly  drink  my  wine. 

Thou  say'st  not  only  skill  is  gain'd, 
But  genius,  too.  may  be  attain'd, 

By  studious  imitation ; 
Thy  temper  mild,  thy  genius  fine, 
I'll  study  till  I  make  them  mine 

By  constant  meditation. 

The  art  of  pleasing  teach  me,  Garrick, 
Thou  who  reverses!  odes  Pindarick 

A  second  time  read  o'er; 
O  could  we  read  thee  backwards  too, 
Last  thirty  years  thou  shouldst  review, 

And  charm  us  thirty  more. 

If  I  have  thoughts  and  can't  express  'em, 
Gibbons  shall  teach  me  how  to  dress  'em, 

In  terms  select  and  terse; 
Jones,  teach  me  modesty  and  Greek ; 
Smith,  how  to  think  ;  Burke,  how  to  speak ; 

And  Beauclerk,  to  converse. 

Let  Johnson  teach  me  how  to  place 
In  fairest  light  each  borrow'd  grace, 

From  him  I'll  learn  to  write  : 
Copy  his  free  and  easy  style, 
And  from  the  roughness  of  his  file 

Grow,  like  himself,  polite. 

Dr.  Barnard  of  Killuloe. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM 


CLIV. 

WHEN  Molly  smiles  beneath  her  cow, 
I  feel  my  heart — I  can't  tell  how ; 
When  Molly  is  on  Sunday  drest, 
On  Sundays  I  can  take  no  rest. 

What  can  I  do  ?  on  worky  days 
I  leave  my  work  on  her  to  gaze. 
What  shall  I  say  ?     At  sermons,  I 
Forget  the  text  when  Molly's  by. 

Good  master  curate,  teach  me  how 

To  mind  your  preaching,  and  my  plough  : 

And  if  for  this  you'll  raise  a  spell, 

A  good  fat  goose  shall  thank  you  well. 

Unknown. 


CLV. 
ROBIN'S  COMPLAINT. 

DID  ever  swain  a  nymph  adore, 

As  I  ungrateful  Nanny  do  ? 
Was  ever  shepherd's  heart  so  sore, 

Or  ever  broken  heart  so  true  ? 
My  cheeks  are  swell'd  with  tears,  but  she 
Has  never  wet  a  cheek  for  me. 

If  Nanny  call'd,  did  e'er  I  stay  ? 

Or  linger,  when  she  bid  me  run  ! 
She  only  had  the  word  to  say, 

And  all  she  wish'd  was  quickly  done. 
I  always  think  of  her,  but  she 
Does  ne'er  bestow  a  thought  on  me. 

To  let  her  cows  my  clover  taste, 
Have  I  not  rose  by  break  of  day  ? 

Did  ever  Nanny's  heifers  fast, 
If  Robin  in  his  barn  had  hay  ? 

Though  to  my  fields  they  welcome  were, 

I  ne'er  was  welcome  yet  to  her. 


,22  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

If  ever  Nanny  lost  a  sheep, 

Then  cheerfully  I  gave  her  two ; 

And  I  her  lambs  did  safely  keep, 
Within  my  folds,  in  frost  and  snow. 

Have  they  not  there  from  cold  been  free  ? 

But  Nanny  still  is  cold  to  me. 

When  Nanny  to  the  well  did  come, 
'Twas  I  that  did  her  pitchers  fill ; 

Full  as  they  were  I  brought  them  home : 
Her  corn  I  carried  to  the  mill. 

My  back  did  bear  the  sack,  but  she 

Will  never  bear  the  sight  of  me. 

To  Nanny's  poultry  oats  I  gave, 
I'm  sure  they  always  had  the  best : 

Within  this  week  her  pigeous  have 
Ate  up  a  peck  of  pease,  at  least : 

Her  little  pigeons  kiss,  but  she 

Will  never  take  a  kiss  from  me. 

Must  Robin  always  Nanny  woo, 
And  Nanny  still  on  Robin  frown  ? 

Alas,  poor  wretch !  what  shall  I  do, 
If  Nanny  does  not  love  me  soon  ? 

If  no  relief  to  me  she'll  bring, 

I'll  hang  me  in  her  apron-string. 

Unknown. 


YE  nymph  and  ye  swains,  from  the  groves  and  the  plains, 

Attend  my  complaints,  and  give  ear  to  my  strains; 

No  lover  in  story,  or  ancient  or  new, 

Has  suffered  so  much  for  a  passion  so  true. 

The  nymph  I  adore's  neither  cruel,  nor  kind, 
To  love  seems  averse,  to  my  friendship  inclined. 
She  smiles  when  I'm  gay,  when  I  sigh  she  looks  grave, 
She  admits  me  her  friend,  she  denies  me  her  slave. 

I  tell  her  I'm  dying,  she  asks  what  I  ail  : 

I  fall  at  her  feet,  but,  alas,' t  won't  avail : 

She  wonders,  why  trembling,  I  sigh  and  complain, 

And  pities  my  case,  tho'  she  laughs  at  my  pain. 


LYRA  ELEGANT/ARUM.  123 

A  bosom  so  frozen,  what  lover  can  bear  ? 
O  say,  O  ye  Powers,  shall  I  hope  or  despair  ? 
Shall  I  fly  to  a  warmer,  or  kinder  than  she, 
Who'll  as  soon  ease  my  pain,  or  as  soon  set  me  free 

Unknown. 

CLVII. 

THE  days  of  our  happiness  gliding  away, 
A  year  seems  a  moment,  and  ages  a  day  ; 
But  Fortune  converting  our  smiles  into  tears, 
What  an  age  a  diminutive  moment  appears  ! 

Ah,  Fortune  !  possess'd  of  so  fickle  a  name, 

Why  only  in  this  art  thou  ever  the  same  ? 

O,  change  !  and  bid  moments  of  pleasure  move  slow, 

And  give  eagle-plumes  to  the  moments  of  woe ! 

Unknown. 

CLVIII. 

ABSENCE. 

WITH  leaden  foot  Time  creeps  along, 

While  Delia  is  away, 
With  her,  nor  plaintive  was  the  song, 

Nor  tedious  was  the  day, 

Ah !  envious  power  !  reverse  my  doom, 

Now  double  thy  career  ; 
Strain  every  nerve,  stretch  every  plume, 

And  rest  them  when  she's  here. 

Richard  Jago. 

CLIX. 

WRITTEN  AT  AN  INN. 

To  thee,  fair  freedom  !  I  retire, 

From  flattery,  feasting,  dice  and  din  ; 

Nor  art  thou  found  in  domes  much  higher 
Than  the  lone  cot  or  humble  Inn. 

'Tis  here  with  boundless  power  I  reign, 

And  every  health  which  I  begin, 
Converts  dull  port  to  bright  champagne  ; 

For  Freedom  crowns  it,  at  an  Inn. 


124 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

I  fly  from  pomp,  I  fly  from  plate, 
1  fly  from  falsehood's  specious  grin; 

Freedom  I  love,  and  form  I  hate, 
And  choose  my  lodgings  at  an  Inn. 

Here,  waiter  !  take  my  sordid  ore, 

Which  lacqueys  else  might  hope  to  win; 

It  buys  what  Courts  have  not  in  store, 
It  buys  me  Freedom,  at  an  Inn. 

And  now  once  more  I  shape  my  way 

Through  rain  or  shine,  through  thick  or  thin, 

Secure  to  meet,  at  close  of  day, 
With  kind  reception  at  an  Inn. 

Whoe'er  has  travell'd  life's  dull  round, 
Where'er  his  stages  may  have  been, 

May  sigh  to  think  how  oft  he  found 
The  warmest  welcome — at  an  Inn. 

William  Shenstonf. 


CLX. 

As  t'other  day  o'er  the  green  meadow  T  pass'd, 
A  swain  overtook  me,  and  held  my  hand  fast ; 
Then  cried,  my  dear  Lucy,  thou  cause  of  my  care, 
How  long  must  thy  faithful  young  Thyrsis  despair  ? 
To  grant  my  petition,  no  longer  be  shy  ; 
But  frowning,  I  answer'd,  "  O  fie,  shepherd,  fie." 

He  told  me  his  fondness  like  time  should  endure,     . 
That  beauty  which  kindled  his  flame  'twould  secure  : 
That  all  my  sweet  charms  were  for  homage  design'd, 
And  youth  was  the  season  to  love  and  be  kind  : 
Lord,  what  could  I  say,  I  could  hardly  deny, 
And  faintly  I  uttered,  "  O,  fie,  shepherd,  fie." 

He  swore— with  a  kiss,  that  he  could  not  refrain, 
I  told  him  'twas  rude, — but  he  kissed  me  again  ; 
My  conduct,  ye  fair  ones,  in  question  ne'er  call, 
Nor  think  I  did  wrong, — I  did  nothing  at  all ! 
Resolved  to  resist,  yet  inclined  to  comply, 
I  leave  it  for  you  to  say,  "  fie,  shepherd,  fie." 

Unknown. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  125 


CLXI. 

YOUNG  Colin  protests  I'm  his  joy  and  delight  ; 
He's  ever  unhappy  when  I'm  from  his  sight  : 
He  wants  to  be  with  me  wherever  I  go  ; 
The  deuce  sure  is  in  him  for  plaguing  me  so. 

His  pleasure  all  day  is  to  sit  by  my  side  ; 
He  pipes  and  he  sings,  though  I  frown  and  I  chide ; 
I  bid  him  depart  :  but  he  smiling,  says  "  No." 
The  deuce  sure  is  in  him  for  plaguing  me  so. 

He  often  requests  me  his  flame  to  relieve  ; 
I  ask  him  what  favor  he  hopes  to  receive  : 
His  answer's  a  sigh,  while  in  blushes  I  glow; 
What  mortal,  beside  him,  would  plague  a  maid  so  ? 

This  breast-knot  he  yesterday  brought  from  the  wake, 

And  softly  entreated'l'd  wear  't  for  his  sake, 

Such  trifles  are  easy  enough  to  bestow  : 

1  sure  deserve  more  for  his  plaguing  me  so  ! 

lie  hands  me  each  eve  from  the  cot  to  the  plain, 
And  meets  me  each  morn  to  conduct  me  again  ; 
But  what's  his  intention  I  wish  I  could  know. 
For  I'd  rather  be  married  than  plagued  by  him  so. 

Unknown. 


CLXI  I. 

Pious  Selinda  goes  to  prayers, 

If  I  but  ask  her  favor  ; 
And  yet  the  silly  fool's  in  tears, 

If  she  believes  I'll  leave  her, 
Would  I  were  free  from  this  restraint, 

Or  else  had  hopes  to  win  her  : 
Would  she  could  make  of  me  a  saint, 

Or  I  of  her  a  sinner. 

William  Conor  eve. 


I26  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

CLXIII. 

THE  REMEDY  WORSE  THAN  THE  DISEASE. 

I  SENT  for  Ratcliffe ;  was  so  ill, 
That  other  doctors  gave  me  over  : 

He  felt  my  pulse,  prescribed  his  pill, 
And  I  was  likely  to  recover. 

But  when  the  wit  began  to  wheeze, 

And  wine  had  warmed  the  politician, 
Cured  yesterday  of  my  disease, 
I  died  last  night  of  my  physician. 

Matthew  Prior. 

CLXIV. 

UNDERNEATH  this  sable  hearse 
Lies  the  subject  of  all  verse, 
Sydney's  sister — Pembroke's  mother — 
Death,  ere  thou  hast  slain  another, 
Fair  and  wise  and  good  as  she, 
Time  shall  throw  his  dart  at  thee. 

Ben  Jonson. 

CLIV. 

To  LAURELS. 

A  FUNERAL  stone, 
Of  verse,  I  covet  none  ; 
But  only  crave 
Or  you  that  I  may  have 
A  sacred  laurel  springing  from  my  grave, 

Which  being  seen, 
Blest  with  perpetual  green, 

May  grow  to  be 
Not  so  much  call'd  a  tree, 
As  the  eternal  monument  of  me. 

Robert  Herrick. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 


CLXVI. 


I27 


UPON  A  LADY  THAT  DIED  IN  CHILD-BED,  AND  LEFT  A 
DAUGHTER  BEHIND  HER. 

As  gilly-flowers  do  but  stay 

To  blow,  and  seed,  and  so  away, 

So  you,  sweet  lady,  sweet  as  May, 

The  garden's  glory,  lived  awhile, 

To  lend  the  world  your  scent  and  smile: 

But  when  your  own  fair  print  was  set 

Once  in  a  virgin  flosculet, 

Sweet  as  yourself,  and  newly  blown, 

To  give  that  life,  resign'd  your  own; 

But  so,  as  still  the  mother's  power 

Lives  in  the  pretty  lady-flower. 

Robert  Herrick. 
CLXVI  I. 

UPON  THE  DEATH  OF  SIR  A.  MORTON'S  WIFE. 

HE  first  deceased ;  she,  for  a  little,  tried 
To  live  without  him,  liked  it  not,  and  died. 

Sir  Henry  IVotton. 


FOR  MY  OWN  MONUMENT. 

As  doctors  give  physic  by  way  of  prevention, 

Mat,  alive  and  in  health,  of  his  tombstone  took  care  ; 

For  delays  are  unsafe,  and  his  pious  intention. 
May  haply  be  never  fulfill'd  by  his  heir. 

Then  take  Mat's  word  for  it,  the  sculptor  is  paid  ; 

That  the  figure  is  fine,  pray  believe  your  own  eye; 
Yet  credit  but  lightly  what  more  may  be  said, 

For  we  flatter  ourselves,  and  teach  marble  to  lie. 

Yet  counting  as  far  as  to  fifty  his  years, 

His  virtues  and  vices  were  as  other  men's  are; 

High  hope  she  conceived,  and  he  smoother'd  great  fears, 
In  a  life  party-col or'd,  half  pleasure,  half  care. 


I2g  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

Nor  to  business  a  drudge,  nor  to  faction  a  slave, 
He  strove  to  make  interest  and  freedom  agree  ; 

In  public  employments  industrious  and  grave, 

And  alone  with  his  friends,  Lord  !  how  merry  was  he. 

Now  in  equipage  stately,  now  humbly  on  foot, 

Both  fortunes  he  tried,  but  to  neither  would  trust , 

And  whirl'd  in  the  round  as  the  wheel  turn'd  about, 
He  found  riches  had  wings,  and  knew  man  was  but  dust. 

This  verse,  little  polish'd,  tho'  mighty  sincere, 

Sets  neither  his  titles  nor  merit  to  view  ; 
It  says  that  his  relics  collected  lie  here, 

And  no  mortal  yet  knows  too  if  this  may  be  true. 

Fierce  robbers  there  are  that  infest  the  highway, 
So  Mat  may  be  kill'd,  and  his  bones  never  found  ; 

False  witness  at  court,  and  fierce  tempests  at  sea, 
So  Mat  may  yet  chance  to  be  hang'd  or  be  drown'd. 

If  his  bones  lie  in  earth,  roll  in  sea,  fly  in  air, 
To  Fate  we  must  yield,  and  the  thing  is  the  same ; 

And  if  passing  thou  giv'st  him  a  smile  or  a  tear, 
He  cares  not — yet,  prithee,  be  kind  to  his  fame. 

Matthew  Prior. 

CLXIX.. 

ON   HIMSELF. 

To  me  'tis  given  to  die,  to  thee  'tis  given 
To  live  ;  alas !  one  moment  sets  us  even  ; 
Mark  how  impartial  is  the  will  of  Heaven  ! 

Matthew  Prior. 

CLXX. 

EPITAPH  FOR  ONE  WHO  WOULD  NOT    BE   BURIED  IN 
WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

HEROES  and  kings  I  your  distance  keep, 
In  peace  let  one  poor  poet  sleep, 
Who  never  flatter'd  folks  like  you: 
Let  Horace  blush,  and  Virgil  too. 

Alexander  Pope. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  129 

CLXXI. 
ON  TWIN-SISTERS. 

FAIR  marble  tell  to  future  days 

That  here  two  virgin-sisters  lie, 
Whose  life  employ'd  each  tongue  in  praise, 

Whose  death  gave  tears  to  every  eye. 
In  stature,  beauty,  years  and  fame, 

Together  as  they  grew,  they  shone  ; 
So  much  alike,  so  much  the  same, 

That  death  mistook  them  both  for  one. 

Unknown. 
CLXXII. 

WIND,  gentle  evergreen,  to  form  a  shade 
Around  the  tomb  where  Sophocles  is  laid  : 
Sweet  ivy,  wind  thy  boughs,  and  interwine 
With  blushing  roses  and  the  clustering  vine; 
Thus  will  thy  lasting  leaves,  with  beauties  hung, 
Prove  grateful  emblems  of  the  lays  he  sung; 
Whose  soul,  exalted,  like  a  god  of  wit 
Among  the  Muses  and  the  Graces  writ. 

Unknown. 

CLXXI  II. 

GAILY  I  lived  as  ease  and  nature  taught, 
And  spent  my  little  life  without  a  thought ; 
And  am  annoyed  that  Death,  that  tyrant  grim, 
Should  think  of  me,  who  never  thought  of  him. 

Unknown. 
CLXXIV. 

To  my  ninth  decade  I  have  totter'd  on, 

And  no  soft  arm  bends  now  my  steps  to  steady , 

She,  who  once  led  me  where  she  would,  is  gone, 
So  when  he  calls  me,  Death  shall  find  me  ready. 

Walter  S.  Landor. 


,.j0  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

CLXXV. 

ON  SOUTHEY'S  DEATH. 

FRIENDS  !  hear  the  words  my  wandering  thoughts  would 

say, 

And  cast  them  into  shape  some  other  day  ; 
Southey,  my  friend  of  forty  years,  is  gone, 
And,  shatter'd  by  the  fall,  I  stand  alone. 

Walter  S.  Landor. 

CLXXVI. 
EPITAPH  IN  CROYLAND  ABBEY. 

MAN'S  life  is  like  unto  a  winter's  day, — 
Some  break  their  fast  and  so  depart  away. 
Others  stay  dinner,  then  depart  full  fed : 
The  longest  age  but  sups  and  goes  to  bed. 
O,  reader,  then  behold  and  see, 
As  we  are  now,  so  thou  must  be  ! 

Unknown, 

CLXXVI  I. 

To  AN  INFANT  NEWLY  BORN. 

ON  parent's  knees,  a  naked  new-born  child, 
Weeping  thou  sat'st  while  all  around  thee  smiled  ; 
So  live,  that  sinking  in  thy  long  last  sleep, 
Calm  thou  may'st  smile,  while  all  around  thee  weep. 

Sir  William  Jones.    . 

CLYXVIII. 
FEATHERS. 

THERE  falls  with  every  wedding-chime 
A  feather  from  the  wing  of  Time. 
You  pick  it  up ,  and  say,  "  How  fair 
To  look  upon  its  colours  are  ! " 
Another  drops,  day  after  day, 
Unheeded  ;  not  one  word  you  say: 
When  bright  and  dusky  are  blown  past, 
Upon  the  hearse  there  nods  the  last. 

Walter  S.  Landor. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  i 

CLXXIX. 

To  His  SOUL. 

POOR  little,  pretty  fluttering  thing, 

Must  we  no  longer  live  together  ? 
And  dost  thou  prune  thy  trembling  wing, 

To  take  thy  flight  thou  know'st  not  whither  ? 

Thy  humorous  vein,  thy  pleasing  folly 

Lie  all  neglected,  all  forgot : 
And  pensive,  wavering,  melancholy, 

Thou  dread'st  and  hop'st  thou  know'st  not  what. 

Matthew  Prior. 


CLXXX. 

DEATH. 

O  DEATH,  thy  certainty  is  such, 

The  thought  of  thee  so  fearful  ; 
That  musing,  I  have  wonder'd,  much, 

How  men  are  ever  cheerful. 

Henry  Luttrell. 


CLXXX  I. 

MY  muse  and  I,  ere  youth  and  spirits  fled, 
Sat  up  together  many  a  night,  no  doubt ; 

But  now  I've  sent  the  poor  old  lass  to  bed, 
Simply  because  my  fire  is  going  out. 

George  Colman,  the  Younger. 


I  STROVE  with  none,  for  none  was  worth  my  strife  ; 

Nature  I  loved,  and,  next  to  nature,  art ; 
I  warm'd  both  hands  before  the  fire  of  life  ; 

It  sinks,  and  I  am  ready  to  depart. 

Walter  S.  Landor 


132 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

CLXXXIII. 
ON  ONE  IN  ILLNESS. 

HEALTH,  strength,  and  beauty,  who  would  not  resign, 

And  be  neglected  by  the  world,  if  you 
Round  his  faint  neck  your  loving  arms  would  twine, 

And  bathe  his  aching  brow  with  pity's  dew  ? 

Walter  S.  Landor. 

CLXXXIV. 

To  ONE  IN  GRIEF. 

AH  !  do  not  drive  off  grief,  but  place  your  hand 

Upon  it  gently  ;  it  will  then  subside. 
A  wish  is  often  more  than  a  command, 

Either  of  yours  would  do  ;  let  one  be  tried. 

Walter  S.  Landor. 

CLXXXV. 

To  fix  her, — 'twere  a  task  as  vain 
To  count  the  April  drops  of  rain, 
To  sow  in  Afric's  barren  soil. — 
Or  tempests  hold  within  a  toil. 

I  know  it,  friend,  she's  light  as  air, 
False  as  the  fowler's  artful  snare, 
Inconstant  as  the  passing  wind, 
As  winter's  dreary  frost  unkind. 

She's  such  a  miser  too,  in  love. 
It's  joys  she'll  neither  share  nor  prove  ; 
Though  hundreds  of  gallants  await 
From  her  victorious  eyes  their  fate. 

Blushing  at  such  inglorious  reign, 
I  sometimes  strive  to  break  my  chain  ; 
My  reason  summon  to  my  aid, 
Resolve  no  more  to  be  betray'd. 

Ah,  friend !  'tis  but  a  short-lived  trance, 
Dispell'd  by  one  enchanting  glance  ; 
She  need  but  look,  and  I  confess 
Those  looks  completely  curse  or  bless. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  133 

So  soft,  so  elegant,  so  fair, 

Sure  something  more  than  human's  there; 

I  must  submit,  for  strife  is  vain, 

'Twas  destiny  that  forged  the  chain. 

Tobias  Smollett, 

CLXXXVI. 

KATE  OF  ABERDEEN. 

THE  silver  moon's  enamoured  beam, 

Steals  softly  thro'  the  night, 
To  wanton  with  the  winding  stream, 

And  kiss  reflected  light. 
To  beds  of  state  go  balmy  sleep 

('Tis  where  you've  seldom  been), 
May's  Vigil  while  the  shepherds  keep 

With  Kate  of  Aberdeen. 

Upon  the  green  the  virgins  wait, 

In  rosy  chaplets  gay, 
Till  morn  unbar  her  golden  gate, 

And  give  the  promised  May. 
Methinks  I  hear  the  maids  declare, 

The  promised  May,  when  seen, 
Not  half  so  fragrant,  half  so  fair, 

As  Kate  of  Aberdeen. 

Strike  up  the  tabor's  boldest  notes, 

We'll  rouse  the  nodding  grove  ; 
The  nested  birds  shall  raise  their  throats, 

And  hail  the  maid  of  love  : 
And  see — the  matin  lark  mistakes, 

He  quits  the  tufted  green  : 
Fond  bird !  'tis  not  the  morning  breaks, — 

'Tis  Kate  of  Aberdeen. 

Now  lightsome  o'er  the  level  mead, 

Where  midnight  fairies  rove, 
Like  them  the  jocund  dance  we'll  lead, 

Or  tune  the  reed  to  love  : 
For  see  the  rosy  May  draws  nigh, 

She  claims  a  virgin  Queen ; 
And  hark,  the  happy  shepherds  cry, 

'Tis  Kate  of  Aberdeen. 

John  Cunningham. 


134  LYRA  ELEGANT/ARUM. 

CLXXXVII. 

How  SPRINGS  CAME  FIRST. 

THESE  springs  were  maidens  once  that  loved  : 
But  lost  to  that  they  most  approved : 
My  story  tells,  by  Love  they  were 
Turn'd  to  these  springs  which  we  see  here  : 
The  pretty  whimperings  that  they  make, 
When  of  the  banks  their  leaves  they  take, 
Tell  ye  but  this,  thev  are  the  same, 
In  no'thing  changed  but  in  their  name. 

Robert  Herrick. 

CLXXXVII  I. 
THE  COUNTRY  WEDDING. 

WELL  met,  pretty  nymph,  says  a  jolly  young  swain 
To  a  lovely  young  shepherdess  crossing  the  plain  ; 
Why  so  much  in  haste  ? — now  the  month  it  was  May — 
May  I  venture  to  ask  you,  fair  maiden,  which  way  ? 
Then  straight  to  this  question  the  nymph  did  reply, 
With  a  blush  on  her  cheek,  and  a  smile  in  her  eyej 
I  came  from  the  village,  and  homeward  I  go, 
And  now,  gentle  shepherd,  pray  why  would  you  know  ? 

I  hope,  pretty  maid,  you  won't  take  it  amiss, 

If  I  tell  you  my  reason  for  asking  you  this ; 

I  would  see  you  safe  home — (now  the  swain  was  inlove  !)- 

Of  such  a  companion  if  you  would  approve. 

Your  offer,  kind  shepherd,  is  civil,  I  own, 

But  I  see  no  great  danger  in  going  alone  ; 

Nor  yet  can  I  hinder,  the  road  being  free 

For  one  as  another,  for  you  as  for  me. 

No  danger  in  going  alone,  it  is  true, 
But  yet  a  companion  is  pleasanter  too  ; 
And  if  you  could  like  (now  the  swain  he  took  heart) 
Such  a  sweetheart  as  me,  why  we  never  would  part. 
O  that's  a  long  word,  said  the  shepherdess  then, 
I've  often  heard  say  there's  no  minding  you  men. 
You'll  say  and  unsay,  and  you'll  flatter,  tis  true  ! 
Then  to  leave  a  young  maiden's  the  first  thing  you  do. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  135 

O  judge  not  so  harshly,  the  shepherd  replied, 
To  prove  what  I  say  I  will  make  you  my  bride. 
To-morrow  the  parson  (well  said,  little  swain ! ) 
Shall  join  both  our  hands,  and  make  one  of  us  twain. 
Then  what  the  nymph  answer'd  to  this  isn't  said, 
The  very  next  morn,  to  be  sure,  they  were  wed. 
Sing  hey-diddle, — ho-diddle, — hey-diddle-down — 
Now  when  shall  we  see  such  a  wedding  in  town  ? 

Unknown. 

CLXXXIX. 

AN  EPISTLE  TO  SIR  ROBERT  WALPOLE. 

WHILE  at  the  helm  of  State  you  ride, 
Our  nation's  envy,  and  its  pride  ; 
While  foreign  Courts  with  wonder  gaze, 
And  curse  those  counsels  that  they  praise  ; 
Would  you  not  wonder,  sir,  to  view 
Your  bard  a  greater  man  than  you  ? 
Which  that  he  is,  you  cannot  doubt, 
When  you  have  read  the  sequel  out. 

You  know,  great  sir,  that  ancient  fellows, 
Philosophers,  and  such  folks,  tell  us, 
No  great  analogy  between 
Greatness  and  happiness  is  seen. 
If  then,  as  it  might  follow  straight, 
Wretched  to  be,  is  to  be  great ; 
Forbid  it  gods,  that  you  should  try 
What  'tis  to  be  so  great  as  I ! 

The  family  that  dines  the  latest 
Is  in  our  street  esteem'd  the  greatest; 
But  latest  hours  must  surely  fall 
'Fore  him  who  never  dines  at  all. 
Your  taste  in  architect,  you  know, 
Hath  been  admired  by  friend  and  foe  ; 
But  can  your  earthly  domes  compare 
With  all  my  castles — in  the  air  ? 
We're  often  taught,  it  doth  behove  us 
To  think  those  greater  who're  above  us  ; 
Another  instance  of  my  glory, 
Who  live  above  you,  twice  two  story  ; 
And  from  my  garret  can  look  down 
On  the  whole  street  of  Arlington. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

Greatness  by  poets  still  is  painted 
With  many  followers  acquainted  : 
This,  too,  doth  in  my  favour  speak ; 
Your  levee  is  but  twice  a  week ; 
From  mine  I  can  exclude  but  one  day, 
My  door  is  quiet  on  a  Sunday. 

Nor  in  the  manner  of  attendance, 

Doth  your  great  bard  claim  less  ascendance, 

Familiar  you  to  admiration 

May  be  approached  by  all  the  nation  : 

While  I,  like  the  Mogul  in  Indo, 

Am  never  seen  but  at  my  window. 

If  with  my  greatness  you're  offended, 

The  fault  is  easily  amended  ; 

For  I'll  come  down,  with  wondrous  ease, 

Into  whatever  place  you  please. 

I'm  not  ambitious  ;  little  matters 

Will  serve  us  great,  but  humble  creatures, 

Suppose  a  secretary  o'  this  isle, 
Just  to  be  doing  with  a  while ; 
Admiral,  general,  judge,  or  bishop : 
Or  I  can  foreign  treaties  dish  up. 
If  the  good  genius  of  the  nation 
Should  call  me  to  negotiation, 
Tuscan  and  French  are  in  my  head, 
Latin  I  write,  and  Greek — I  read. 
If  you  should  ask,  what  pleases  best  ? 
To  get  the  most,  and  do  the  least ; 
What  fittest  for  ? — you  know,  I'm  sure, 
I'm  fittest  for — a  sinecure. 

Henry  Fielding. 
cxc. 
To  SIR  ROBERT  WALPOLE. 

GREAT  Sir,  as  on  each  levee  day 
I  still  attend  you — still  you  say — 
I'm  busy  now,  to-morrow  come  ; 
To-morrow,  sir,  you're  not  at  home  ; 
So  says  your  porter,  and  dare  I 
Give  such  a  man  as  him  the  lie  ? 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  137 

In  imitation,  sir,  of  you, 

I  keep  a  mighty  levee  too  : 

Where  my  attendants,  to  their  sorrow, 

Are  bid  to  come  again  to-morrow. 

To-morrow  they  return,  no  doubt, 

But  then,  like  you,  sir,  I'm  gone  out. 

So  says  my  maid  ;  but  they  less  civil 

Give  maid  and  master  to  the  devil ; 

And  then  with  menaces  depart. 

Which  could  you  hear  would  pierce  your  heart, 

Good  sir,  do  make  my  levee  fly  me, 

Or  tend  your  porter  to  deny  me. 

Henry  Fielding. 

CXCI. 

THE  LASS  OF  THE  HILL. 

ON  the  brow  of  a  hill  a  young  Shepherdess  dwelt, 
Who  no  pangs  of  ambition  or  love  had  e'er  felt  : 
For  a  few  sober  maxims  still  ran  in  her  head 
That  'twas  better  to  earn,  ere  she  ate  her  brown  bread  ; 
That  to  rise  with  the  lark  was  conducive  to  health, 
And,  to  folks  in  a  cottage,  contentment  was  wealth. 

Now  young  Roger,  who  lived  in  the  valley  below, 
Who  at  church  and  at  market  was  reckoned  a  beau, 
Had  many  times  tried  o'er  her  heart  to  prevail, 
And  would  rest  on  his  pitchfork  to  tell  her  his  tale 
With  his  winning  behaviour  he  melted  her  heart; 
For  quite  artless  herself,  she  suspected  no  art. 

He  had  sigh'd  and  protested, — had  knelt  and  implored, 
He  could  lie  with  the  grandeur  and  air  of  a  lord : 
Then  her  eyes  he  commended  in  language  well  drest, 
And  enlarged  on  the  torments  that  troubled  his  breast ; 
Till  his  sighs  and  his  tears  had  so  wrought  on  her  mind, 
That  in  downright  compassion  to  love  she  inclined. 

But  as  soon  as  he'd  melted  the  ice  of  her  breast, 
All  the  flames  of  his  love  in  a  moment  had  ceas'd, 
And  now  he  goes  flaunting  all  over  the  dell, 
And  boasts  of  his  conquest  to  Susan  and  Nell : 
Tho'  he  sees  her  but  seldom,  he's  always  in  haste, 
And  if  ever  he  mentions  her,  makes  her  his  jest. 


138  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

All  the  day  she  goes  sighing  and  hanging  her  head, 

And  her  thoughts  are  so  pestered,  she  scarce  earns  her  bread : 

The  whole  village  cries  shame  when  a  milking  she  goes, 

That  so  little  affection  she  shows  to  the  cows  : 

But  she  heeds  not  their  railing, — e'en  let  them  rail  on, 

And  a  fig  for  the  cows,  now  her  sweetheart  is  gone  1 

Take  heed  pretty  virgins  of  Britain's  fair  Isle 

Mow  you  venture  your  hearts  for  a  look  or  a  smile, 

For  Cupid  is  artful,  and  virgins  are  frail, 

And  you'll  find  a  false  Roger  in  every  vale, 

Who  to  court  you  and  tempt  you  will  try  all  his  skill : 

So  remember  the  lass  at  the  brow  of  the  hill. 

Miss  Mary  Jones. 


CXCII. 

ON  SEEING  A  PORTRAIT  OF  SIR  ROBERT 
WALPOLE. 

SUCH  were  the  lively  eyes  and  rosy  hue 
Of  Robin's  face,  when  Robin  first  I  knew, 
The  gay  companion  and  the  favourite  guest, 
Loved  without  awe,  and  without  views  caress'd. 
His  cheerful  smile  and  open  honest  look 
Added  new  graces  to  the  truth  he  spoke. 
Then  every  man  found  something  to  commend, 
The  pleasant  neighbour,  and  the  worthy  friend 
The  generous  master  of  a  private  house, 
The  tender  father,  and  indulgent  spouse. 

The  hardest  censors  at  the  worst  believed, 
His  temper  was  too  easily  deceived 
(A  consequential  ill  goodnature  draws, 
A  bad  effect,  but  from  a  noble  cause). 
Whence  then  these  clamours  of  a  judging  crowd  ? 
"  Suspicious,  griping,  insolent,  and  proud — 
Rapacious,  cruel,  violent,  and  unjust ; 
False  to  his  friend,  and  traitor  to  his  trust." 

Lady  Mary  W.  Montagu. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  139 

CXCIII. 

To  CELIA. 

I  HATE  the  town,  and  all  its  ways  ; 

Ridottos,  operas,  and  plays; 

The  ball,  the  ring,  the  mall,  the  Court, 

Wherever  the  beau  monde  resort; 

"Where  beauties  lie  in  ambush  for  folks, 

Earl  Straffords  and  the  Dukes  of  Norfolks; 

All  coffee-houses,  and  their  praters, 

All  courts  of  justice  and  debaters  ; 

All  taverns,  and  the  sots  within  'em; 

All  bubbles,  and  the  rogues  that  skin  'em. 

I  hate  all  critics  ;  may  they  burn  all, 

From  Bentley  to  the  Grub-street  Journal ; 

All  barbs,  as  Dennis  hates  a  pun; 

Those  who  have  wit,  and  who  have  none. 

All  nobles  of  whatever  station; 

And  all  the  parsons  in  the  nation. 

I  hate  the  world  crammed  altogether, 

From  beggars,  up,  the  Lord  knows  whither ! 

Ask  you  then,  Celia,  if  there  be 

The  thing  I  love  ?     My  charmer,  thee. 

Thee  more  than  light,  than  life  adore, 

Thou  dearest,  sweetest  creature,  more 

Than  wildest  raptures  can  express, 

Than  I  can  tell,  or  thou  canst  guess. 

Then  tho'  I  bear  a  gentle  mind, 

Let  not  my  hatred  of  mankind 

Wonder  within  my  Celia  move, 

Since  she  possesses  all  I  love. 

Henry  Fielding. 

cxciv. 
To  THE  SUNFLOWER. 

HAIL  !  pretty  emblem  of  my  fate  ! 
Sweet  flower,  you  still  on  Phoebus  wait ; 
On  him  you  look,  and  with  him  move, 
By  nature  led  and  constant  love. 


140  LYRA  ELEGANT1ARUM. 

Know,  pretty  flower,  that  I  am  he, 
Who  am  in  all  so  like  to  thee; 
I,  too,  my  fair  one  court,  and  where 
She  moves,  my  eyes  I  thither  steer. 

But,  yet,  this  difference  still  I  find, 
The  sun  to  you  is  always  kind  ; 
Does  always  life  and  warmth  bestow: — 
Ah !  would  my  fair  one  use  me  so  ! 

Ne'er  would  I  wait  till  she  arose 
From  her  soft  bed  and  sweet  repose ; 
But,  leaving  thee,  dull  plant,  by  night 
I'd  meet  my  Phillis  with  delight. 

Robert  Walpole,  Earl  of  Orford. 


cxcv. 
THE  SECRETARY. 

WHILE  with labo'r  assiduous  due  pleasure  I  mix, 

And  in  one  day  atone  for  the  business  of  six, 

In  a  little  Dutch  chaise,  on  a  Saturday  night, 

On  my  left-hand  my  Horace,  a  nymph  on  my  right ; 

No  memoirs  to  compose,  and  no  postboy  to  move, 

That  on  Sunday  may  hinder  the  softness  of  love. 

For  her  neither  visits  nor  parties  at  tea, 

Nor  the  long-winded  cant  of  a  dull  refugee. 

This  night  and  the  next  shall  be  hers,  shall  be  mine, 

To  good  or  ill  fortune  the  third  we  resign. 

Thus  scorning  the  world,  and  superior  to  fate, 

I  drive  in  my  car  in  professional  state. 

So  with  Phia  thro'  Athens  Pisistratus  rode; 

Men  thought  her  Minerva,  and  him  a  new  god. 

But  why  should  I  stories  of  Athens  rehearse 

Where  people  knew  love,  and  were  partial  to  verse, 

Since  none  can  with  justice  my  pleasure  oppose 

In  Holland  half  drowned  in  interest  and  prose  ? 

By  Greece  and  past  ages  what  need  I  be  tried 

When  The  Hague  and  the  present  are  both  on  my  side  ; 

And  is  it  enough  for  the  joys  of  the  day 

To  think  what  Anacreon  or  Sappho  would  say  ? 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 


141 


When  good  Vandergoes  and  his  provident  vrow, 
As  they  gaze  on  my  triumph  do  freely  allow, 
That  search  all  the  province,  you'll  find  no  man  dar  is 
So  blest  as  the  Englishen  Heer  Secretar'  is. 
Hague,  1696  Matthew  Prior. 

CXCVI. 

To  MRS.  CREWE. 

WHERE  the  loveliest  expression  to  features  is  join'd, 

By  Nature's  most  delicate  pencil  design'cl ; 

Where  blushes  unbidden,  and  smiles  without  art, 

Speak  the  softness  and  feeling  that  dwell  in  the  heart ; 

Where  in  manners,  enchanting,  no  blemish  we  trace  ; 

But  the  soul  keeps  the  promise  we  had  from  the  face; 

Sure  philosophy,  reason,  and  coldness  must  prove 

Defences  unequal  to  shield  us  from  love: 

Then  tell  me,  mysterious  Enchanter,  O  tell ! 

By  what  wonderful  art,  by  what  magical  spell, 

My  heart  is  so  fenced  that  for  once  I  am  wise, 

And  gaze  without  rapture  on  Amoret's  eyes ; 

That  my  wishes,  which  never  were  bounded  before, 

Are  here  bounded  by  friendship,  and  ask  for  no  more  ? 

Is  it  reason  ?     No,  that  my  whole  life  will  belie, 

For  who  so  at  variance  as  reason  and  I  ? 

Ambition,  that  fills  up  each  chink  of  my  heart, 

Nor  allows  any  softer  sensation  a  part  ? 

O,  no !  for  in  this  all  the  world  must  agree, 

One  folly  was  never  sufficient  for  me. 

Is  my  mind  on  distress  too  intensely  employ'd 

Or  by  pleasure  relax'd,  by  variety  cloy'd  ? 

For  alike  in  this  only,  enjoyment  and  pain 

Both  slacken  the  springs  of  those  nerves  which  they  strain. 

That  I've  felt  each  reverse  that  from  Fortune  can  flow, 

That  I've  tasted  each  bliss  that  the  happiest  know, 

Has  still  been  the  whimsical  fate  of  my  life, 

Where  anguish  and  joy  have  been  ever  at  strife  : 

But,  tho'  versed  in  extremes  both  of  pleasure  and  pain, 

I  am  still  but  too  ready  to  feel  them  again. 

If,  then,  for  this  once  in  my  life,  I  am  free, 

And  escape  from  the  snares  that  catch  wiser  than  me; 

'Tis  that  beauty  alone  but  imperfectly  charms; 

For  though  brightness  may  dazzle,  'tis  kindness  that  warms  ; 


142 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 


As  on  suns  in  the  winter  with  pleasure  we  gaze, 

But  feel  not  their  warmth,  tho'  their  splendour  we  praise, 

So  beauty  our  just  admiration  may  claim, 

But  love,  and  love  only,  the  heart  can  inflame  ! 

Rt.  Honble.  Charles  James  Fox. 


CXCVII. 

EPISTLE  FROM  LORD  BORINGDON  TO  LORD  GRANVILLE. 

OFT  you  have  ask'd  me,  Granville,  why 

Of  late  I  heave  the  frequent  sigh  ? 

Why,  moping,  melancholy,  low, 

From  supper,  commons,  wine,  I  go  ? 

Why  bows  my  mind,  by  care  oppress'd; 

By  day  no  peace,  by  night  no  rest  ? 

Hear,  then,  my  friend,  and  ne'er  you  knew 

A  tale  so  tender,  and  so  true — 

Hear  what,  tho'  shame  my  tongue  restrain, 

My  pen  with  freedom  shall  explain. 

Say,  Granville,  do  you  not  remember, 
About  the  middle  of  November, 
When  Blenheim's  hospitable  lord 
Received  us  at  his  cheerful  board ; 
How  fair  the  Ladies  Spencer  smiled, 
Enchanting,  witty,  courteous,  mild  ? 
And  mark'd  you  not,  how  many  a  glance 
Across  the  table,  shot  by  chance 
From  fair  Eliza's  graceful  form, 
Assail'd  and  took  my  heart  by  storm  ? 
And  mark'd  you  not,  with  earnest  zeal, 
I  ask'd  her,  if  she'd  have  some  veal  ? 
And  how,  when  conversation's  charms 
Fresh  vigor  gave  to  love's  alarms, 
My  heart  was  scorch'd,  and  burnt  to  tinder, 
When  talking  to  her  at  the  winder? 
These  facts  premised,  you  can't  but  guess 
The  cause  of  my  uneasiness, 
For  you  have  heard,  as  well  as  I ; 
That  she'll  be  married  speedily  ; 
And  then — my  grief  more  plain  to  tell — 
Soft  cares,  sweet  fears,  fond  hopes, — farewell ! 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  143 

But  still,  tho'  false  the  fleeting  dream, 

Indulge  awhile  the  tender  theme, 

And  hear,  had  fortune  yet  been  kind, 

How  bright  the  prospect  of  the  mind. 

O !  had  I  had  it  in  my  power 

To  wed  her — with  a  suited  dower — 

And  proudly  bear  the  beauteous  maid 

To  Saltrum's  venerable  shade, — 

Or  if  she  liked  not  woods  at  Saltrum. 

Why,  nothing  easier  than  to  alter  'em, — 

Then  had  I  tasted  bliss  sincere, 

And  happy  been  from  year  to  year. 

How  changed  this  scene  !  for  now,  my  Granville, 

Another  match  is  on  the  anvil.  _ 

And  I,  a  widow'd  dove,  complain, 

And  feel  no  refuge  from  my  pain — 

Save  that  of  pitying  Spencer's  sister, 

Who's  lost  a  lord,  and  gained  a  Mister. 

The  Rt.  Honbk.  George  Canning. 


CXCVIII. 

'Tis  late,  and  I  must  haste  away, 
My  usual  hour  of  rest  is  near — 
And  do  you  press  me,  youths,  to  stay — 
To  stay  and  revel  longer  here  ? 

Then  give  me  back  the  scorn  of  care 
Which  spirits  light  in  health  allow, 

And  give  me  back  the  dark  brown  hair 
Which  curl'd  upon  my  even  brow. 

And  give  me  back  the  sportive  jest 

Which  once  could  midnight  hours  beguile; 

The  life  that  bounded  in  my  breast, 
And  joyous  youth's  becoming  smile: 

And  give  me  back  the  fervid  soul 

Which  love  inflamed  with  strange  delight, 

When  erst  I  sorrow'd  o'er  the  bowl 
At  Chloe's  coy  and  wanton  flight. 


I44  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

'Tis  late,  and  I  must  haste  away, 

My  usual  hour  of  rest  is  near — 
But  give  me  these,  and  I  will  stay — 

Will  stay  till  noon,  and  revel  here  ! 

William  Lamb,  Viscount  Melbourne. 
CXCIX. 

AN  ODE  TO  THE  EARL  OF  BATH. 

GREAT  Earl  of  Bath,  your  reign  is  o'er, 
The  Tories  trust  your  word  no  more, 

The  Whigs  no  longer  fear  you  ; 
Your  gates  are  seldom  now  unbarr'd, 
No  crowd  of  coaches  fills  your  yard, 

And  scarce  a  soul  comes  near  you. 

Few  now  aspire  to  your  good  graces, 
Scarce  any  sue  to  you  for  places, 

Or  come  with  their  petition, 
To  tell  how  well  they  have  deserved, 
How  long,  how  steadily  they  starved 

For  you,  in  opposition. 

Expect  to  see  that  tribe  no  more, 
Since  all  mankind  perceive  that  power 

Is  lodged  in  other  hands  : 
Sooner  to  Carteret  now  they'll  go, 
Or  even  (tho*  that's  excessive  low) 

To  Wilmington  or  Sandys'. 

With  your  obedient  wife  retire, 
And  sitting  silent  by  the  fire, 

A  sullen  tete-h-tete. 
Think  over  all  you've  done  or  said 
And  curse  the  hour  that  you  were  made 

Unprofitably  great. 

With  vapours  there,  and  spleen  o'ercast. 
Reflect  on  all  your  actions  past 

With  sorrow  and  contrition  : 
And  there  enjoy  the  thoughts  that  rise 
From  disappointed  avarice, 

From  frustrated  ambition. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

There  soon  you'll  loudly,  but  in  vain, 
Of  your  deserting  friends  complain, 

That  visit  you  no  more  : 
For  in  this  country,  'tis  a  truth, 
As  known,  as  that  love  follows  youth, 

That  friendship  follows  power. 

Such  is  the  calm  of  your  retreat? 
You  thro'  the  dregs  of  life  must  sweat 

Beneath  this  heavy  load  ; 
And  I'll  attend  you  as  I've  done, 
Only  to  help  reflection  on, 

With  now  and  then  an  ode. 

Sir  Charles  H.  Williams. 
CC. 
THE  STATESMAN. 

WHAT  statesman,  what  hero,  what  king, 
Whose  name  thro'  the  island  is  spread, 

Will  you  choose,  oh,  my  Clio,  to  sing, 
Of  all  the  great  living,  or  dead  ? 

Go,  my  muse,  from  this  place  to  Japan, 

In  search  of  a  topic  for  rhyme  ; 
The  great  Earl  of  Bath  is  the  man 

Who  deserves  to  employ  your  whole  time. 

But,  howe'er,  as  the  subject  is  nice, 
And  perhaps  you're  unfurnish'd  with  matter, 

May  it  please  you  to  take  my  advice, 
That  you  mayn't  be  suspected  to  flatter. 

When  you  touch  on  his  Lordship's  high  birth, 

Speak  Latin  as  if  you  were  tipsy, 
Say,  we  all  are  the  sons  of  the  earth, 

Et genus  nonfecimus  ipsi, 

Proclaim  him  as  rich  as  a  Jew, 

Yet  attempt  not  to  reckon  his  bounties ; 

You  may  say,  he  is  married — that's  true — 
Yet  speak  not  a  word  of  his  Countess. 


146  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

Leave  a  blank  here  and  there  in  each  page, 
To  enrol  the  fair  deeds  of  his  youth! 

When  you  mention  the  acts  of  his  age, 
Leave  a  blank  for  his — honour  and  truth. 

Say  he  made  a  great  monarch  change  hands; 

He  spake,  and  the  minister  fell; 
Say  he  made  a  great  statesman  of  Sandys  ; — 

O  that  he  had  taught  him  to  spell ! 

Then  enlarge  on  his  cunning  and  wit, 
Say  how  he  harangued  at  the  Fountain  : 

Say  how  the  old  Patriots  were  bit, 
And  a  mouse  was  produced  by  a  mountain. 

Then  say  how  he  mark'd  the  new  year 
By  increasing  our  taxes  and  stocks; 

Then  say  how  he  changed  to  a  Peer, 
Fit  companion  for  Edgcumbe  and  Fox. 

Sir  Charles  H.  Williams. 

CCI. 

ADVICE  TO  THE  MARQUIS  OF  ROCKINGHAM. 
Upon  a  Late  Occasion. 

WELL  may  they,  Wentworth,  call  thee  young; 
What,  hear  and  feel !  sift  right  from  wrong, 

And  to  a  wretch  be  kind  ! 
Old  statesmen  would  reverse  your  plan, 
Sink,  in  the  minister,  the  man, 

And  be  both  deaf  and  blind. 

If  thus,  my  Lord,  your  heart  o'erflows, 
Know  you,  how  many  mighty  foes 

Such  weakness  will  create  you  ? 
Regard  not  what  Fitzherbert  says, 
For  though  you  gain  each  good 'man's  praise, 

We  older  folks  shall  hate  you. 

You  should  have  sent,  the  other  day, 
Garrick,  the  player,  with  frowns  away ; 

Your  smiles  but  made  him  bolder 
Why  would  you  hear  his  strange  appeal, 
Which  dared  to  make  a  statesman  feel  ? — 

I  would  that  you  were  older. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  147 

You  should  be  proud,  and  seem  displeased, 
Or  you  forever  will  be  teased, 

Your  house  with  beggars  haunted  : 
What,  every  suitor  kindly  used? 
If  wrong,  their  folly  is  excused, 

If  right,  their  suit  is  granted. 

From  pressing  words  of  great  and  small 
To  free  yourself,  give  hopes  to  all, 

And  fail  nineteen  in  twenty : 
What,  wound  my  honour,  break  my  word  ? 
You're  young  again, — you  may,  my  Lord, 

Have  precedents,  in  plenty  ! 

Indeed,  young  Statesman,  'twill  not  do, — 
Some  other  ways  and  means  pursue, 

More  fitted  to  your  station  : 
What  from  your  boyish  freaks  can  spring  ? 
Mere  toys  ! — The  favour  of  your  king, 

And  love  of  all  the  nation. 

David  Garrick. 

CCII. 

To  ANY  MINISTER,  OR  GREAT  MAN. 

WHETHER  you  lead  the  patriot  band, 
Or  in  the  class  of  courtiers  stand, 

Or  prudently  prefer 
The  middle  course,  with  equal  zeal 
To  serve  both  king  and  common-weal, — 

Your  Grace,  my  Lord,  or  Sir  I 

Know,  minister  !  whate'er  you  plan, — 
Whate'er  your  politics,  great  man, 

You  must  expect  detraction; 
Though  of  clean  hand,  and  honest  heart, 
Your  greatness  must  expect  to  smart 

Beneath  the  rod  of  faction. 

Like  blockheads,  eager  in  dispute, 
The  mob,  that  many-headed  brute, 

All  bark  and  bawl  together; 
For  continental  measures  some, 
And  some  cry,  keep  your  troops  at  home, 

And  some  are  pleased  with  neither. 


,4g  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

Lo,  a  mititia  guards  the  land! 
Thousands  applaud  your  saving  hand, 

And  hail  you  their  protector; 
While  thousands  censure  and  defame, 
And  brand  you  with  the  hideous  name 

Of  state-quack  and  projector. 

Are  active,  vigorous  means  preferr'd — 
Lord,  what  harangues  are  hourly  heard 

Of  wasted  blood  and  treasure ! 
Then  all  for  enterprise  and  plot, 
And,  out  on  this  unmeaning  Scot  I 

If  cautious  in  your  measure. 

Corruption's  influence  you  despise ; 
These  lift  your  glory  to  the  skies, 

Those  pluck  your  glory  down  : 
So  strangely  different  is  the  note 
Of  scoundrels  that  have  right  to  vote, 

And  scoundrels  that  have  none. 

Unknown. 

ccnr. 

THE  FRIEND  OF  HUMANITY  AND  THE  KNIFE- 
GRINDER. 
FRIEND  OF  HUMANITY. 

"  KNEEDY  knife-grinder  I  whither  are  you  going  ? 
Rough  is  the  road,  your  wheel  is  out  of  order — 
Bleak  blows  the  blast ;  your  hat  has  got  a  hole  in't, 

So  have  your  breeches 

"  Weary  knife-grinder  !  little  think  the  proud  ones, 
Who  in  their  coaches  roll  along  the  turnpike- 
Road,  what  hard  work  'tis  crying  all  day,  '  Knives  and 

Scissors  to  grind  O  ! ' 

"  Tell  me,  knife-grinder,  how  you  came  to  grind  knives  ?  . 
Did  some  rich  man  tyrannically  use  you  ? 
Was  it  the  squire  ?  or  parson  of  the  parish  ? 

Or  the  attorney  ? 

"  Was  it  the  squire  for  killing  of  his  game  ?  or 
Covetous  parson  for  his  tithes  distraining  ? 
Or  roguish  lawyer  made  vou  lose  your  little 

All  in  a  lawsuit  ? 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 


149 


("  Have  you  not  read  the  Rights  of  Man,  by  Tom  Paine  ?) 
Drops  of  compassion  tremble  on  my  eyelids, 
Ready  to  fall  as  soon  as  you  have  told  your 

Pitiful  story." 

KNIFE-GRIN  DE. 

"  Story  !  God  bless  you  !     I  have  none  to  tell,  sir, 
Only  last  night  a-clrinking  at  the  Chequers, 
This  poor  old  hat  and  breeches,  as  you  see,  were 

Torn  in  the  scuffle. 

"  Constable  came  up  for  to  take  me  into 
Custody  ;  they  took  me  before  the  Justice; 
Justice  Oldmixon  put  me  in  the  parish 

Stocks  for  a  vagrant. 

"  I  should  be  glad  to  drink  your  honor's  health  in 
A  pot  of  beer,  if  you  would  give  me  sixpence ; 
But,  for  my  part,  I  never  love  to  meddle 

With  politics,  sir." 

FRIEND    OF   HUMANITY. 

"  /give  thee  sixpence  !     I  will  see  thee  damned  first — 
Wretch !  whom  no  sense  of  wrong  can  rouse  to  vengeance — 
Sordid,  unfeeling,  reprobate,  degraded, 

Spiritless  outcast !  " 

(Kicks  the  knife-grinder,  overturns  his  wheel,  and 
exit  in  a  transport  of  republican  enthusiasm  and 
universal  philanthropy!) 

Anti-Jacobin. 


CCIV. 
A  POLITICAL  DESPATCH. 

IN  matters  of  commerce,  the  fault  of  the  Dutch 
Is  giving  too  little  and  asking  too  much; 
With  equal  advantage  the  French  are  content, 
So  we'll  clap  on  Dutch  bottoms  a  twenty  per  cent. 

Twenty  per  cent., 

Twenty  per  cent., 
Nous  frapperons  Falck  with  twenty  per  cent. 

The  Right  Hon.  George  Canning. 


150  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

CCV. 

FRAGMENT  OF  AN  ORATION. 

Part  of  Mr.  Whitbread's  speech  on  the  trial  of  Lord  MelviUe, 
put  into  verse  by  Canning  at  the  time  it  was  delivered. 

I'M  like  Archimedes  for  science  and  skill, 

I'm  like  a  young  prince  going  straight  up  a  hill; 

I'm  like  (with  respect  to  the  fair  be  it  said,) 

I'm  like  a  young  lady  just  bringing  to  bed. 

If  you  ask  why  the  nth  of  June  I  remember, 

Much  better  than  April,  or  May,  or  November, 

On  that  day,  my  Lords,  with  truth,  I  assure  ye, 

My  sainted  progenitor  set  up  his  brewery; 

On  that  day,  in  the  morn,  he  began  brewing  beer: 

On  that  day,  too,  began  his  connubial  career  ; 

On  that  day  he  received  and  he  issued  his  bills; 

On  that  day  he  cleared  out  all  the  cash  from  his  tills ; 

On  that  day  he  died,  having  finished  his  summing, 

And  the  angels  all  cried,  "  Here's  old  Whitbread  a-coming  ! " 

So  that  day  still  I  hail  with  a  smile  and  a  sigh, 

For  his  beer  with  an  E,  and  his  bier  with  an  I ; 

And  still  on  that  day,  in  the  hottest  of  weather, 

The  whole  Whitbread  family  dine  all  together. 

So  long  as  the  beams  of  this  house  shall  support 

The  roof  which  o'ershades  this  respectable  court, 

Where  Hastings  was  tried  for  oppressing  the  Hindoos : 

So  long  as  the  sun  shall  shine  in  at  those  windows, 

My  name  shall  shine  bright  as  my  ancestor's  shines, 

Mine  recorded  in  journals,  his  blazon'd  on  signs  ! 

The  Right  Hon.  George  Canning. 


CCVI. 

KING  CRACK  AND  HIS  IDOLS. 
Written  after  the  late  negotiation  for  a  new  ministry. 

KING  CRACK  was  the  best  of  all  possible  kings, 

(At  least  so  his  courtiers  would  swear  to  you  gladly,) 

But  Crack  now  and  then  would  do  het'rodox  things, 
And;  at  last,  took  to  worshipping  images  sadly. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  J5I 

Some  broken-down  idols,  that  long  had  been  placed 
In  his  Father's  old  Cabinet,  pleas'd  him  so  much, 

That   he  knelt  down  and  worshipp'd,  tho' — such  was  his 

taste  ! — 
They  were  monstrous  to  look  at,  and  rotten  to  touch. 

And  these  were  the  beautiful  gods  of  King  Crack ! — 
lint  his  People,  disdaining  to  worship  such  things, 

Cried  aloud.one  and  all,  "  Come,  your  godships  must  pack — 
You'll  not  do  for  us,  tho'  you  may  do  for  Kings" 

Then,  trampling  these  images  under  their  feet, 

They  sent  Crack  a  petition,  beginning  "  Great  Caesar ! 

We're  willing  to  worship  ;  but  only  entreat 
That  you'll  find  us  some  decenter  godheads  than  these 
are." 

"I'll  try," says  King  Crack — so  they  furnish'd  him  models 
Of  better  shaped  gods,  but  he  sent  them  all  back ; 

Some  were  chisell'd  too   fine,  some  had  heads  'stead   of 

noddles, 
In  short  they  were  all  much  too  godlike  for  Crack. 

So  he  took  to  his  darling  old  idols  again, 

And,  just  mending  their  legs  and  new  bronzing  their  faces, 
In  open  defiance  of  gods  and  of  men, 

Set  the  monsters  up  grinning  once  more  in  their  places. 

Thomas  Moore. 


THE  PILOT  THAT  WEATHERED  THE  STORM. 

IF  hush'd  the  loud  whirlwind  that  ruffled  the  deep, 
The  sky  if  no  longer  dark  tempests  deform, 

When  our  perils  are  past,  shall  our  gratitude  sleep  ? 
No — here's  to  the  pilot  that  weather'd  the  storm! 

At  the  footstool  of  Power  let  flattery  fawn  ; 

Let  Faction  her  idol  extol  to  the  skies  ; 
To  Virtue  in  humble  retirement  withdrawn, 

Unblamed  may  the  accents  of  gratitude  rise  ! 


'52 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 


And  shall  not  his  memory  to  Britain  be  dear, 
Whose  example  with  envy  all  nations  behold  ? 

A  Statesman  unbias'd  by  interest  or  fear, 
By  power  uncorrupted,  untainted  by  gold  I 

Who,  when  terror  and  doubt  thro'  the  universe  reigned, 

When  rapine  and  treason  their  standards  unfurl 'd, 
The  hearts  and  the  hopes  of  his  country  maintained, 
And  our  kingdom  preserved  midst  the  wreck  of  the  worldl 

Unheeding,  unthankful,  we  bask  in  the  blaze, 

While  the  beams  of  the  sun  in  full  majesty  shine  : 

When  he  sinks  into  twilight  with  fondness  we  gaze, 
And  mark  the  mild  lustre  that  gilds  his  decline. 

So,  Pitt,  when  the  course  of  thy  greatness  is  o'er, 
Thy  talents,  thy  virtues,  we  fondly  recall ; 

Now  justly  we  prize  thee,  when  lost  we  deplore  ; 
Admired  in  thy  zenith,  but  loved  in  thy  fall. 

O  take  them,  for  dangers  by  wisdom  repell'd, 
For  evils  by  courage  and  constancy  braved, 

O  take  for  thy  throne  by  thy  counsels  upheld 
The  thanks  of  a  people  thy  firmness  has  saved. 

And  oh  !  if  again  the  rude  whirlwind  should  rise, 

The  dawning  of  peace  should  fresh  darkness  deform  ; 

The  regrets  of  the  good  and  the  fears  of  the  wise, 
Shall  turn  to  the  pilot  that  weather'd  the  storm. 

Right  Hon.  George  Canning. 


MARS  DISARMED  BY  LOVE. 

AYE,  bear  it  hence,  thou  blessed  child, 

Though  dire  the  burthen  be, 
And  hide  it  in  the  pathless  wild, 

Or  drown  it  in  the  sea  : 
The  ruthless  murderer  swears  and  prays ; 

So  let  him  swear  and  pray; 
Be  deaf  to  all  his  oaths  and  prayers, 

And  take  the  sword  away. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM, 

We've  had  enough  of  fleets  and  camps, 

Guns,  glories,  odes,  gazettes, 
Triumphal  arches,  coloured  lamps, 

Huzzas  and  epaulettes ; 
We  could  not  bear  upon  our  head 

Another  leaf  of  bay  ; 
That  horrid  Bonaparte's  dead ; — 

Yes,  take  the  sword  away. 

We're  weary  of  the  noisy  boasts 

That  pleased  our  patriot  throngs  : 
We've  long  been  dull  to  Gooch's  toasts, 

And  tame  to  Dibden's  songs; 
We're  quite  content  to  rule  the  wave, 

Without  a  great  display  ; 
We're  known  to  be  extremely  brave  ; 

But  take  the  sword  away. 

We  give  a  shrug,  when  fife  and  drum 

Play  up  a  favorite  air  ; 
We  think  our  Barracks  are  become 

More  ugly  than  they  were  ; 
We  laugh  to  see  the  banners  float ; 

We  loathe  the  charger's  bray  ; 
We  don't  admire  a  scarlet  coat; 

Do  take  the  sword  away. 

Let  Portugal  have  rulers  twain  ; 

Let  Greece  go  on  with  none  ; 
Let  Popery  sink  or  swim  in  Spain, 

While  we  enjoy  the  fun  ; 
Let  Turkey  tremble  at  the  knout  ; 

Let  Algiers  lose  her  Dey  ; 
Let  Paris  turn  her  Bourbons  out ; — 

Bah !  take  the  sword  away. 

Our  honest  friends  in  Parliament 

Are  looking  vastly  sad  ; 
Our  farmers  say  with  one  consent 

It's  all  immensely  bad  ; 
There  was  a  time  for  borrowing, 

But  now  it's  time  to  pay  ; 
A  budget  is  a  serious  thing; 

So  take  the  sword  away. 


153 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

And  O,  the  bitter  tears  we  wept, 

In  those  our  days  of  fame, — 
The  dread,  that  o'er  our  heart-strings  crept 

With  every  post  that  came, — 
The  home-affections,  waged  and  lost 

In  every  far-off  fray, — 
The  price  that  British  glory  cost  I 

Ah !  take  the  sword  away. 

We've  plenty  left  to  hoist  the  sail, 

Or  mount  the  dangerous  breach ; 
And  Freedom  breathes  in  every  gale, 

That  wanders  round  our  beach. 
When  duty  bids  us  dare  or  die, 

We'll  fight  another  day : 
But  till  we  know  a  reason  why, 

Take,  take  the  sword  away. 

Winthrop  M.  Praed. 


CCIX. 

VERSES  ON  SEEING  THE  SPEAKER  ASLEEP  IN  His  CHAIR 
DURING  ONE  OF  THE  DEBATES  OFTHE  FIRST  REFORMED 
PARLIAMENT. 

SLEEP,  Mr.  Speaker,  'tis  surely  fair 

If  you  mayn't  in  your  bed,  that  you  should  in  your  chair; 

Louder  and  longer  still  they  grow, 

Tory  and  Radical,  Aye  and  No ; 

Talking  by  night  and  talking  by  day ; 

Sleep,  Mr.  Speaker — sleep  while  you  may  1 

Sleep,  Mr.  Speaker  ;  slumber  lies 

Light  and  brief  OH  a  Speaker's  eyes. 

Fielden  or  Finn  in  a  minute  or  two 

Some  disorderly  thing  will  do ; 

Riot  will  chase  repose  away — 

Sleep,  Mr.  Speaker — sleep  while  you  may ! 

Sleep,  Mr.  Speaker.     Sweet  to  men 
Is  the  sleep  that  cometh  but  now  and  then, 
Sweet  to  the  weary,  sweet  to  the  ill, 
Sweet  to  the  children  that  work  in  the  mill. 
You  have  more  need  of  repose  than  they — 
Sleep,  Mr.  Speaker — sleep  while  you  may  ! 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

Sleep,  Mr.  Speaker,  Harvey  will  soon 
Move  to  abolish  the  sun  and  the  moon  : 
Hume  will  no  doubt  be  taking  the  sense 
Of  the  House  on  a  question  of  sixteen  pence. 
Statesmen  will  howl,  and  patriots  bray — 
Sleep,  Mr.  Speaker — sleep  while  you  may ! 

Sleep,  Mr.  Speaker,  and  dream  of  the  time, 

"When  loyalty  was  not  quite  a  crime, 

When  Grant  was  a  pupil  in  Canning's  school, 

And  Palmerston  fancied  Wood  a  fool. 

Lord,  how  principles  pass  away — 

Sleep,  Mr.  Speaker — sleep  while  you  may  ! 

Winthrop  M.  Praed. 


CCX. 

THE  COUNTRY  CLERGYMAN'S  TRIP  TO  CAMBRIDGE. 
An  Election  Ballad. 

As  I  sate  down  to  breakfast  in  state, 
At  my  living  of  Tithing-cum-Boring, 

With  Betty  beside  me  to  wait, 

Came  a  rap  that  almost  beat  the  door  in. 

I  laid  down  my  basin  of  tea, 

And  Betty  ceased  spreading  the  toast, 

"  As  sure  as  a  gun,  sir,"  said  she, 

"  That  must  be  the  knock  of  the  Post." 

A  letter — and  free — bring  it  here — 

I  have  no  correspondent  who  franks. 
No  !  yes  !  can  it  be  ?     Why  my  dear, 

'Tis  our  glorious,  our  Protestant  Bankes. 
"  Dear  sir,  as  I  know  you  desire 

That  the  Church  should  receive  due  protection, 
I  humbly  presume  to  require 

Your  aid  at  the  Cambridge  election. 

"  It  has  lately  been  brought  to  my  knowledge, 

That  the  ministers  fully  design 
To  suppress  each  Cathedral  and  College, 

And  eject  every  learned  divine. 


I56  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

To  assist  this  detestable  scheme 

Three  nuncios  from  Rome  are  come  over  ; 
They  left  Calais  on  Monday  by  steam, 

And  landed  to  dinner  at  Dover. 

"  An  army  of  grim  Cordeliers, 

Well  furnish'd  with  relics  and  vermin, 
Will  follow,  Lord  Westmoreland  fears, 

To  effect  what  their  chiefs  may  determine. 
Lollards'  tower,  good  authorities  say, 

Is  again  fitting  up  as  a  prison; 
And  a  wood-merchant  told  me  to-day 

'Tis  a  wonder  how  faggots  have  risen. 

"  The  finance-scheme  of  Canning  contains 

A  new  Easter-offering  tax  : 
And  he  means  to  devote  all  the  gains 

To  a  bounty  on  thumb-screws  and  racks. 
Your  living,  so  neat  and  compact — 

Pray,  don't  let  the  news  give  you  pain ! 
Is  promised,  I  know  for  a  fact, 

To  an  olive-faced  Padre  from  Spain." 

I  read,  and  I  felt  my  heart  bleed, 

Sore  wounded  with  horror  and  pity  ; 
So  I  flew,  with  all  possible  speed, 

To  our  Protestant  champion's  committee^ 
True  gentlemen,  kind  and  well  bred  ! 

No  fleering !  no  distance  !  no  scorn  ! 
They  asked  after  my  wife  who  is  dead, 

And  my  children  who  never  were  born. 

They  then,  like  high-principled  Tories, 

Called  our  Sovereign  unjust  and  unsteady, 
And  assailed  him  with  scandalous  stories, 

Till  the  coach  for  the  voters  was  ready, 
That  coach  might  be  well  called  a  casket 

Of  learning  and  brotherly  love  : 
There  were  parsons  in  boot  and  in  basket ; 

There  were  parsons  below  and  above. 

There  were  Sneaker  and  Griper,  a  pair 
Who  stick  to  Lord  Mulesby  like  leeches; 

A  smug  chaplain  of  plausible  air, 

Who  writes  my  Lord  Goslingham's  speeches. 


LYRA  ELEGANT/ARUM. 

Dr.  Buzz,  who  alone  is  a  host, 

Who,  with  arguments  weighty  as  lead, 

Proves  six  times  a  week  in  the  Post 

That  flesh  somehow  differs  from  bread. 

Dr.  Nimrod,  whose  orthodox  toes 

Are  seldom  withdrawn  from  the  stirrup; 
Dr.  Humdrum,  whose  eloquence  flows, 

Like  droppings  of  sweet  poppy  syrup  ; 
Dr.  Rosygill  puffing  and  fanning, 

And  wiping  away  perspiration  ; 
Dr.  Humbug,  who  proved  Mr.  Canning 

The  beast  in  St.  John's  Revelation. 

A  layman  can  scarce  form  a  notion 

Of  our  wonderful  talk  on  the  road ; 
Of  the  learning,  the  wit,  and  devotion, 

Which  almost  each  syllable  show'd : 
Why  divided  allegiance  agrees' 

So  ill  with  our  free  constitution  ; 
How  Catholics  swear  as  they  please, 

In  hopes  of  the  priest's  absolution  : 

How  the  bishop  of  Norwich  had  barter'd 

His  faith  for  a  legate's  commission  ; 
How  Lyndhurst,  afraid  to  be  martyr'd, 

Had  stooped  to  a  base  coalition  ; 
How  Papists  are  cased  from  compassion 

By  bigotry,  stronger  than  steel ; 
How  burning  would  soon  come  in  fashion, 

And  how  very  bad  it  must  feel. 

We  were  all  so  much  touched  and  excited 

By  a  subject  so  direly  sublime, 
That  the  rules  of  politeness  were  slighted, 

And  we  all  of  us  talked  at  a  time ; 
And  in  tones,  which  each  moment  grew  louder, 

Told  how  we  should  dress  for  the  show, 
And  where  we  should  fasten  the  powder, 

And  if  we  should  bellow  or  no. 

Thus  from  subject  to  subject  we  ran, 
And  the  journey  pass'd  pleasantly  o'er, 

Till  at  last  Dr.  Humdrum  began  : 
From  that  time  I  remember  no  more. 


'57 


158  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

At  Ware  he  commenced  his  prelection, 

In  the  dullest  of  clerical  drones  : 
And  when  next  I  regained  recollection 

We  were  rumbling  o'er  Trumpington  stones, 

Thomas,  Lord  Macaulay.  1827. 


THE  FATE  OF  A  BROOM  :    AN  ANTICIPATION. 

Lo  !  in  Corruption's  lumber-room, 

The  remnants  of  a  wondrous  broom  ; 

That  walking,  talking,  oft  was  seen  ; 

Making  stout  promise  to  sweep  clean  ; 

But  evermore,  at  every  push, 

Proved  but  a  stump  without  a  brush. 

Upon  its  handle-top,  a  sconce, 

Like  Brahma's,  look'd  four  ways  at  once, 

Pouring  on  King,  Lords,  Church,  and  rabble, 

Long  floods  of  favour-currying  gabble  ; 

From  four-fold  mouth-piece  always  spinning 

Projects  of  plausible  beginning, 

Whereof  said  sconce  did  ne'er  intend 

That  any  one  should  have  an  end ; 

Yet  still,  by  shifts  and  quaint  inventions, 

Got  credit  for  its  good  intentions, 

Adding  no  trifle  to  the  store 

Wherewith  the  devil  paves  his  floor. 

Worn  out  at  last,  found  bare  and  scrubbish, 

And  thrown  aside  with  other  rubbish, 

We'll  e'en  hand  o'er  the  enchanted  stick, 

As  a  choice  present  for  Old  Nick, 

To  sweep,  beyond  the  Stygian  lake, 

The  pavement  it  has  helped  to  make. 

J.  L.  Peacock. 

CCXII. 

IRELAND. 

IRELAND  never  was  contented. 
Say  you  so  ?    You  are  demented. 
Ireland  was  contented  when 
All  could  use  the  sword  and  pen. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

And  when  Tara  rose  so  high 
That  her  turrets  split  the  sky, 
And  about  her  courts  were  seen 
Liveried  angels  robed  in  green, 
Wearing,  by  St.  Patrick's  bounty, 
Emeralds  big  as  half  a  county, 

Walter  S.  Landor. 

CCXIII. 
ON  SOME  ENCROACHMENTS  ON  THE  RIVER. 

"  FOUR  Scotchmen,  by  the  name  of  Adams, 
"Who  keep  their  coaches  for  their  madams," 
Quoth  John,  in  sulky  mood,  to  Thomas, 
"  Have  stole  the  very  river  from  us." 

O,  Scotland  !  long  it  has  been  said 
Thy  teeth  are  sharp  for  English  bread  ; 
What  !  seize  our  bread  and  water  too, 
And  use  us  worse  than  jailors  do  ! 
'Tis  true  'tis  hard  !  'tis  hard  'tis  true  ! 

Ye  friends  of  George,  and  friends  of  James, 
Envy  us  not  our  river  Thames : 
The  Princess,  fond  of  rawboned  faces, 
May  give  you  all  our  posts  and  places; 
Take  all — to  gratify  your  pride, 
But  dip  your  oatmeal  in  the  Clyde. 

Unkncnun. 

ccxiv. 
THE  CONSTANT  SWAIN  AND  VIRTUOUS  MAID. 

SOON  as  the  day  begins  to  waste, 
Straight  to  the  well-known  door  I  haste, 

And  rapping  there,  I'm  forced  to  stay 
While  Molly  hides  her  work  with  care, 
Adjusts  her  tucker  and  her  hair, 

And  nimble  Becky  scours  away. 

Entering,  I  see  in  Molly's  eyes 
A  sudden  smiling  joy  arise, 

As  quickly  check'd  by  virgin  shame  : 
She  drops  a  curtsey,  steals  a  glance, 
Receives  a  kiss,  one  step  advance. — 

If  such  I  love,  am  I  to  blame  ? 


l6o  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

I  sit,  and  talk  of  twenty  things, 

Of  South  Sea  Stock,  or  death  of  kings, 

While  only  "  Yes"  or  "  No,"  says  Molly; 
As  cautious  she  conceals  her  thoughts, 
As  others  do  their  private  faults  : — 

Is  this  her  prudence,  or  her  folly  ? 

Parting,  I  kiss  her  lip  and  cheek, 
I  hang  about  her  snowy  neck, 

And  cry,  "  Farewell,  my  dearest  Molly ! " 
Yet  still  I  hang  and  still  I  kiss, 
Ye  learned  sages,  say,  is  this 

In  me  the  effect  of  love,  or  folly  ? 

No — both  by  sober  reason  move, — 
She  prudence  shows,  and  I  true  love — 

No  charge  of  folly  can  be  laid. 
Then  (till  the  marriage-rites  proclaim'd 
Shall  join  our  hands)  let  us  be  named 

The  constant  swain,  and  virtuous  maid. 

Unknown. 


You  say  you  love, — and  twenty  more 
Have  sigh'd,  and  said  the  same  before. 
And  yet  I  swear,  I  can't  tell  how, 
I  ne'er  believed  a  man  till  now. 

'Tis  strange  that  I  should  credit  give 
To  words,  who  know  that  words  deceive ; 
And  lay  my  better  judgment  by, 
To  trust  my  partial  ear  or  eye! 

'Tis  ten  to  one  I  had  denied 
Your  suit  had  you  to-morrow  tried; 
But,  faith!  unthinkingly,  to-day 
My  heedless  heart  has  gone  astray. 

To  bring  it  back  would  give  me  pain, 
Perhaps  the  struggle,  too  were  vain  ; 
I'm  indolent, — so  he  that  gains 
My  heart,  may  keep  it  for  his  pains. 

Unknown. 


LYRA   ELEGANTIARUM  161 


CCXVI. 

FAIR  Hebe  I  left,  with  a  cautious  design, 

To  escape  from  her  charms,  and  to  drown  Love  in  wine ; 

I  tried  it,  but  found,  when  I  came  to  depart, 

The  wine  in  my  head,  but  still  Love  in  my  heart. 

I  repair'd  to  my  Reason,  entreating  her  aid, 

Who  paused  on  my  case,  and  each  circumstance  weigh'd: 

Then  gravely  pronounced,  in  return  to  my  prayer, 

That  Hebe  was  fairest  of  all  that  were  fair. 

• 

That's  a  truth,  replied  I,  I've  no  need  to  be  taught, 
I  came  for  your  counsel  to  find  out  a  fault; 
If  that's  all,  quoth  Reason,  return  as  you  came, 
For  to  find  fault  with  Hebe  would  forfeit  my  name. 

Earl  of  De  la  Warre, 


As  I  went  to  the  wake  that  is  held  on  the  green, 
I  met  with  young  Phoebe,  as  blithe  as  a  queen  ; 
A  form  so  Divine  might  an  anchorite  move, 
And  I  found  (tho'  a  clown)  I  was  smitten  with  love: 
So  I  ask'd  for  a  kiss,  but  she,  blushing,  replied, 
Indeed,  gentle  shepherd,  you  must  be  denied. 

Lovely  Phoebe,  says  I,  don't  affect  to  be  shy, 
I  vow  I  will  ki?s  you — here's  nobody  by; 
No  matter  for  that,  she  replied,  'tis  the'satne; 
For  know,  silly  shepherd,  I  value  my  fame; 
So  pray  let  me  go,  I  shall  surely  be  miss'd  ; 
Besides,  I'm  resolved  that  I  will  not  be  kiss'd. 

Lord  bless  me  !  I  cried,  I'm  surprised  you  refuse  j 
A  few  harmless  kisses  but  serve  to  amuse  ; 
The  month  it  is  May,  and  the  season  for  love, 
So  come,  my  dear  girl,  to  the  wake  let  us  rove. 
No,  Damon,  she  cried,  I  must  first  be  your  wife, 
You  then  shall  be  welcome  to  kiss  me  for  life. 

Well,  come  then,  I  cried,  to  the  church  let  us  go, 
But  after,  dear  Phoebe  must  never  say  "  No." 


,62  LYRA  F.LEGANTIARUM. 

Do  you  prove  but  true,  (she  replied,)  you  shall  find 
I'll  ever  be  constant,  good-humour'd,  and  kind. 
So  I  kiss  when  I  please,  for  she  ne'er  says  she  won't, 
And  I  kiss  her  so  much,  that  I  wonder  she  don't 

Unknown. 

CCXVIII. 
ON  LORD  KING'S  Mono  (LABOR  IPSE  VOLUPTAS.) 

'Tis  not  the  splendour  of  the  place, 
The  gilded  coach,  the  purse,  the  mace ; 
Nor  all  the  pompous  train  of  state, 
With  crowds  that  at  your  levee  wait, 
That  make  you  happy,— make  you  great. 
But  while  mankind  you  strive  to  bless, 
With  all  the  talents  you  possess  ; 
While  the  chief  pleasure  you  receive, 
Arises  from  the  joy  you  give  : 
This  wins  the  heart,  and  conquers  spite, 
And  makes  the  heavy  burthen  light. 
For  Pleasure,  rightly  understood, 
Is  only  labour  to  be  good. 

Unknown. 

ccxix. 

To  A  CHILD  OF  QUALITY,  FIVE  YEARS  OLD  ,1704.    THE 
AUTHOR  THEN  FORTY. 

LORDS,  knights,  and  squires,  the  numerous  band 
That  wear  the  fair  Miss  Mary's  fetters, 

Were  summoned  by  her  high  command, 
To  show  their  passions  by  their  letters. 

My  pen  amongst  the  rest  I  took, 

Lest  those  bright  eyes  that  cannot  read 

Should  dart  their  kindling  fires,  and  look 
The  power  they  have  to  be  obey'd. 

Nor  quality,  nor  reputation, 

Forbid  me  yet  my  flame  to  tell, 
Dear  five-years-old  befriends  my  passion, 

And  I  may  write  till  she  can  spell. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  163 

For,  while  she  makes  her  silkworms'  beds 

With  all  the  tender  things  I  swear; 
Whilst  all  the  house  my  passion  reads, 

In  papers  round  her  baby's  hair ; 

She  may  receive  and  own  my  flame, 

For,  though  the  strictest  prudes  should  know  it, 
She'll  pass  for  a  most  virtuous  dame, 

And  I  for  an  unhappy  poet. 

Then  too,  alas !  when  she  shall  tear 

The  rhymes  some  younger  rival  sends; 
She'll  give  me  leave  to  write,  I  fear, 

And  we  shall  still  continue  friends. 

For,  as  our  different  ages  move, 

'Tis  so  ordained,  (would  Fate  but  mend  it !) 
That  I  shall  be  past  making  love, 

When  she  begins  to  comprehend  it. 

Matthew  Prior. 


ccxx. 

AN  ODE  ON  Miss  HARRIET  HANBURY,  Six  YEARS  OLD. 

WHY  should  I  thus  employ  my  time, 
To  paint  those  cheeks  of  rosy  hue  ? 

Why  should  I  search  my  brains  for  rhyme, 
To  sing  those  eyes  of  glossy  blue  ? 

The  power  as  yet  is  all  in  vain, 

Thy  numerous  charms,  and  various  graces : 

They  only  serve  to  banish  pain, 
And  light  up  joy  in  parents'  faces. 

But  soon  those  eyes  their  strength  shall  feel ; 

Those  charms  their  powerful  sway  shall  find  : 
Youth  shall  in  crowds  before  you  kneel, 

And  own  your  empire  o'er  mankind. 

Then,  when  on  Beauty's  throne  you  sit, 
And  thousands  court  your  wish'd-for  arms ; 

My  Muse  shall  stretch  her  utmost  wit, 
To  sing  the  victories  of  your  charms. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

Charms  that  in  time  shall  ne'er  be  lost, 
At  least  while  verse  like  mine  endures  : 

And  future  Hanburys  shall  boast, 

Of  verse  like  mine,  of  charms  like  yours. 

A  little  vain  we  both  may  be, 

Since  scarce  another  house  can  show, 

A  poet,  that  can  sing  like  me  ; 

A  beauty,  that  can  charm  like  you. 

Sir  Charles  H,  Williams. 


CCXXI. 

A  SONG  UPON  Miss  HARRIET  HANBURY,  ADDRESSED  TO 
THE  REV.  MR.  BIRT. 

DEAR  Doctor  of  St.  Mary's, 
In  the  hundred  of  'Bergavenny, 

I've  seen  such  a  lass, 

With  a  shape  and  a  face, 
As  never  was  match'd  by  any. 

Such  wit,  such  bloom,  and  such  beauty, 
Has  this  girl  of  Ponty-Pool,  Sir, 

With  eyes  that  would  make 

The  toughest  heart  ache, 
And  the  wisest  man  a  fool,  Sir. 

At  our  fair  t'other  day  she  appear'd.  Sir, 

And  the  Welshmen  all  flock'd  and  view'd  her ; 
And  all  of  them  said, 
She  was  fit  t'have  been  made 
A  wife  for  Owen  Tudor. 

They  would  ne'er  have  been  tired  of  gazing, 
And  so  much  her  charms  did  please,  Sir, 

That  all  of  them  sat 

Till  their  ale  grew  flat, 
And  cold  was  their  toasted  cheese,  Sir. 

How  happy  the  lord  of  the  manor, 
That  shall  be  of  her  possest,  Sir  ; 
For  all  must  agree, 
Who  my  Harriet  shall  see, 
She's  a  Harriet  of  the  best,  Sir. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  165 

Then  pray  make  a  ballad  about  her  ; 
We  know  you  have  wit  if  you'd  show  it, 

Then  don't  be  ashamed, 

You  can  never  be  blamed, — 
For  a  prophet  is  often  a  poet ! 

But  why  don't  you  make  one  yourself,  then  ? 
I  suppose  I  by  you  shall  be  told,  Sir, 

This  beautiful  piece 

Of  Eve's  flesh  is  my  niece — 
And,  besides,  she's  but  five  years  old,  Sir ! 

But  tho',  my  dear  friend,  she's  no  older, 
In  her  face  it  may  plainly  be  seen,  Sir, 
That  this  angel  at  five, 
Will,  if  she's  alive, 
Be  a  goddess  at  fifteen,  Sir. 

Sir  Charles  H.  Williams. 


CCXXII. 

To  MY  COUSIN   ANNE   BODHAM,  ON  RECEIVING   FROM 
HER  A  PURSE. 

MY  gentle  Anne,  whom  heretofore, 
When  I  was  young,  and  thou  no  more 

Than  plaything  for  a  nurse, 
I  danced  and  fondled  on  my  knee, 
A  kitten  both  in  size  and  glee, 

I  thank  thee  for  my  purse. 

Gold  pays  the  worth  of  all  things  here ; 
But  not  of  love ; — that  gem's  too  dear 

For  richest  rogues  to  win  it ; 
I  therefore,  as  a  proof  of  love, 
Esteem  thy  present  far  above 

The  best  things  kept  within  it. 

William  Cowfer. 


1 66  LYRA  ELEGANT/ARUM. 

CCXXIII. 

SKETCH  OF  A  YOUNG  LADY  FIVE  MONTHS  OLIX 

MY  pretty,  budding,  breathing  flower, 

Methinks,  if  I  to-morrow 
Could  manage,  just  for  half  an  hour, 

Sir  Joshua's  brush  to  borrow, 
I  might  immortalize  a  few 

Of  all  the  myriad  graces 
Which  Time,  while  yet  they  all  are  new, 

With  newer  still  replaces. 

I'd  paint,  my  child,  your  deep  blue  eyes, 

Their  quick  and  earnest  flashes  ; 
I'd  paint  the  fringe  that  round  them  lies, 

The  fringe  of  long  dark  lashes  ; 
I'd  draw  with  most  fastidious  care 

One  eyebrow,  then  the  other, 
And  that  fair  forehead,  broad  and  fair, 

The  forehead  of  your  mother. 

I'd  oft  retouch  the  dimpled  cheek 

Where  health  in  sunshine  dances; 
And  oft  the  pouting  lips,  where  speak 

A  thousand  voiceless  fancies  ; 
And  the  soft  neck  would  keep  me  long, 

The  neck,  more  smooth  and  snowy 
Than  ever  yet  in  schoolboy's  song 

Had  Caroline  or  Chloe. 

Nor  less  on  those  twin  rounded  arms 

My  new-found  skill  would  linger, 
Nor  less  upon  the  rosy  charms 

Of  every  tiny  finger ; 
Nor  slight  the  small  feet,  little  one, 

So  prematurely  clever 
That,  though  they  neither  walk  nor  run, 

I  think  they'd  jump  for  ever. 

But  then  your  odd  endearing  ways — 
What  study  e'er  could  catch  them  ? 

Your  aimless  gestures,  endless  plays — 
What  canvas  e'er  could  match  them  ? 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  \(f] 

Your  lively  leap  of  merriment, 

Your  murmur  of  petition, 
Your  serious  silence  of  content, 

Your  laugh  of  recognition. 

Here  were  a  puzzling  toil,  indeed, 

For  Art's  most  fine  creations ! — 
Grow  on,  sweet  baby ;  we  will  need, 

To  note  your  transformations, 
No  picture  of  your  form  or  face, 

Your  waking  or  your  sleeping, 
But  that  which  Love  shall  daily  trace, 

And  trust  to  Memory's  keeping. 

Hereafter,  when  revolving  years 

Have  made  you  tall  and  twenty, 
And  brought  you  blended  hopes  and  fears, 

And  sighs  and  slaves  in  plenty, 
May  those  who  watch  our  little  saint 

Among  her  tasks  and  duties, 
Feel  all  her  virtues  hard  to  paint, 

As  now  we  deem  her  beauties. 

Winthrop  M.  Praed. 

CCXXIV. 

A  RETROSPECT. 

THERE  are  some  wishes  that  may  start, 

Nor  cloud  the  brow,  nor  sting  the  heart. 

Gladly  then  would  I  see  how  smiled 

One  who  now  fondles  with  her  child ; 

How  smiled  she  but  six  years  ago  , 

Herself  a  child,  or  nearly  so. 

Yes,  let  me  bring  before  my  sight 

The  silken  tresses  chained  up  tight, 

The  tiny  fingers  tipt  with  red 

By  tossing  up  the  strawberry-bed ; 

Half-open  lips,  long  violet  eyes, 

A  little  rounder  with  surprise, 

And  then  (her  chin  against  her  knee) 

"  Mamma  !  who  can  that  stranger  be  ? 

How  grave  the  smile  he  smiles  on  me !  " 

Walter  S.  Landor. 


1 68  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 


To  A  GIRL  IN  HER  THIRTEENTH  YEAR. 

THY  smiles,  thy  talk,  thy  aimless  plays, 

So  beautiful  approve  thee, 
So  winning  light  are  all  thy  ways, 

I  cannot  choose  but  love  thee. 
Thy  balmy  breath  upon  my  brow 

Is  like  the  summer  air, 
As  o'er  my  cheek  thou  leanest  now, 

To  plant  a  soft  kiss  there. 

Thy  steps  are  dancing  toward  the  bound 

Between  the  child  and  woman, 
And  thoughts  and  feelings  more  profound, 

And  other  years  are  coming  : 
And  thou  shalt  be  more  deeply  fair, 

More  precious  to  the  heart, 
But  never  canst  thou  be  again 

That  lovely  thing  thou  art ! 

And  youth  shall  pass,  with  all  the  brood 

Of  fancy-fed  affection  ; 
And  grief  shall  come  with  womanhood, 

And  waken  cold  reflection 
Thou'lt  learn  to  toil,  and  watch,  and  weep, 

O'er  pleasures  unreturning, 
Like  one  who  wakes  from  pleasant  sleep 

Unto  the  cares  of  morning. 

Nay,  say  not  so !  nor  cloud  the  sun 

Of  joyous  expectation, 
Ordain'd  to  bless  the  little  one — 

The  freshling  of  creation ! 

Sidney  Walker. 

CCXXVI. 

WRITTEN  IN  A  YOUNG  LADY'S  ALBUM. 

A  PRETTY  task,  Miss  S ,  to  ask 

A  Benedictine  pen, 
That  cannot  quite  at  freedom  write 

Like  those  of  other  men. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  169 

No  lover's  plaint  my  Muse  must  paint 

To  fill  this  page's  span, 
But  be  correct  and  recollect 

I'm  not  a  single  man. 

Pray  only  think  for  pen  and  ink 

How  hard  to  get  along, 
That  may  not  turn  on  words  that  burn 

Or  Love,  the  life  of  song  ! 
Nine  Muses,  if  I  chooses,  I 

May  woo  all  in  a  clan, 
But  one  Miss  S 1  daren't  address — 

I'm  not  a  single  man. 

Scribblers  unwed,  with  little  head 

May  eke  it  out  with  heart, 
And  in  their  lays  it  often  plays 

A  rare  first-fiddle  part. 
They  make  a  kiss  to  rhyme  with  bliss, 

But  if  /so  began, 
I  have  my  fears  about  my  ears — 

I'm  not  a  single  man. 

Upon  your  cheek  I  may  not  speak, 

Nor  on  your  lip  be  warm, 
I  must  be  wise  about  your  eyes, 

And  formal  with  your  form, 
Of  all  that  sort  of  thing,  in  short, 

On  T.  H.  Bayly's  plan, 
I  must  not  twine  a  single  line — 

I'm  not  a  single  man. 

A  watchman's  part  compels  my  heart 

To  keep  you  off  its  beat, 
And  I  might  dare  as  soon  to  swear 

At  you  as  at  your  feet. 
I  can't  expire  in  passion's  fire 

As  other  poets  can — 
My  life  (she's  by)  won't  let  me  die — 

I'm  not  a  single  man. 

Shut  out  from  love,  denied  a  dove, 

Forbidden  bow  and  dart, 
Without  a  groan  to  call  my  own, 


I70 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

With  neither  hand  nor  heart, 
To  Hymen  vow'd,  and  not  allow'd 

To  flirt  e'en  with  your  fan, 
Here  end,  as  just  a  friend,  I  must — 

I'm  not  a  single  man. 

Thomas  Hood. 


CCXXVII. 

VALENTINE. 
To  the  Honble.  M.  C.  Stanhope. 

HAIL,  day  of  music,  day  of  Love, 

On  earth  below,  in  air  above. 

In  air  the  turtle  fondly  moans, 

The  linnet  pipes  in  joyous  tones  ; 

On  earth  the  postman  toils  along, 

Bent  double  by  huge  bales  of  song, 

Where,  rich  with  many  a  gorgeous  dye, 

Blazes  all  Cupid's  heraldry — 

Myrtles  and  roses,  doves  and  sparrows, 

Love-knots  and  altars,  lamps  and  arrows. 

What  nymph  without  wild  hopes  and  fears 

The  double  rap  this  morning  hears ! 

Unnumbered  lasses,  young  and  fair, 

From  Bethnal  Green  to  Belgrave  Square, 

With  cheeks  high  flush'd,  and  hearts  loud  beating, 

Await  the  tender  annual  greeting. 

The  loveliest  lass  of  all  is  mine — 

Good  morrow  to  my  Valentine  ! 

Good  morrow,  gentle  child !  and  then 

Again  good  morrow,  and  again, 

Good  morrow  following  still  good  morrow, 

Without  one  cloud  of  strife  or  sorrow. 

And  when  the  god  to  whom  we  pay 

In  jest  our  homages  to-day 

Shall  come  to  claim,  no  more  in  jest, 

His  rightful  empire  o'er  thy  breast, 

Benignant  may  his  aspect  be, 

His  yoke  the  truest  liberty : 

And  if  a  tear  his  power  confess, 

Be  it  a  tear  of  happiness. 

It  shall  be  so.     The  Muse  displays 

The  future  to  her  votary's  gaze ; 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARVM.  171 

Prophetic  rage  my  bosom  swells — 
I  taste  the  cake — I  hear  the  bells  ! 
From  Conduit  Street  the  close  array 
Of  chariots  barricades  the  way 
To  where  I  see,  with  outstretch'd  hand, 
Majestic,  thy  great  kinsman  stand, 
And  half  unbend  his  brow  of  pride, 
As  welcoming  so  fair  a  bride. 
Gay  favours,  thick  as  flakes  of  snow, 
Brighten  St.  George's  portico  : 
Within  I  see  the  chancel's  pale, 
The  orange  flowers,  the  Brussels  veil, 
The  page  on  which  those  fingers  white, 
Still  trembling  from  the  awful  rite, 
For  the  last  time  shall  faintly  trace 
The  name  of  Stanhope's  noble  race. 
I  see  kind  faces  round  thee  pressing, 
I  hear  kind  voices  whisper  blessing  ; 
And  with  those  voices  mingles  mine — 
All  good  attend  my  Valentine  ! 

Thomas,  Lord  Macaulay. 


ccxxvnr. 
NEIGHBOUR  NELLY. 

I'M  in  love  with  neighbour  Nelly, 

Though  I  know  she's  only  ten, 
While,  alas,  I'm  eight-and -forty — 

And  the  marriedest  of  men  ! 
I've  a  wife  who  weighs  me  double, 

I've  three  daughters,  all  with  beaux'. 
I've  a  son  with  noble  whiskers, 

Who  at  me  turns  up  his  nose — 

Though  a  square-toes,  and  a  fogey, 

Still  I've  sunshine  in  my  heart: 
Still  I'm  fond  of  cakes  and  marbles, 

Can  appreciate  a  tart — 
I  can  love  my  neighbour  Nelly 

Just  as  tho'  I  were  a  boy : 
I  could  hand  her  nuts  and  apples 

From  my  depths  of  corduroy. 


172 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

She  is  tall,  and  growing  taller, 

She  is  vigorous  of  limb  : 
(You  should  see  her  play  at  cricket 

With  her  little  brother  Jim). 
She  has  eyes  as  blue  as  damsons, 

She  has  pounds  of  auburn  curls, 
She  regrets  the  game  of  leapfrog 

Is  prohibited  to  girls. 

I  adore  my  neighbour  Nelly, 

I  invite  her  in  to  tea  : 
And  I  let  her  nurse  the  baby — 

All  her  pretty  ways  to  see. 
Such  a  darling  bud  of  woman, 

Yet  remote  from  any  teens, — 
I  have  learnt  from  neighbour  Nelly 

What  the  girl's  doll-instinct  means. 

Oh !  to  see  her  with  the  baby  ! 

He  adores  her  more  than  I, — 
How  she  choruses  his  crowing, — 

How  she  hushes  every  cry  ! 
How  she  loves  to  pit  his  dimples 

With  her  light  forefinger  deep, 
How  she  boasts  to  me  in  triumph 

When  she's  got  him  off  to  sleep  ! 

We  must  part,  my  neighbour  Nelly, 

For  the  summers  quickly  flee  ; 
And  your  middle-aged  admirer 

Must  supplanted  quickly  be. 
Yet  as  jealous  as  a  mother, — 

A  distemper'd  canker'd  churl, 
I  look  vainly  for  the  setting 

To  be  worthy  such  a  pearl. 

Robert  B.  Brough. 


CCXXIX. 

O  THOU  art  the  lad  of  my  heart,  Willy, 
There's  love,  and  there's  life,  and  grace — 

There's  a  cheer  in  thy  voice  and  thy  bounding  step, 
And  there's  bliss  in  thy  blithesome  face  ; 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

But  O,  how  my  heart  was  tried,  Willy, 

For  little  I  thought  to  see 
That  the  lad  who  won  the  lasses  all 

Would  ever  be  won  by  me. 

Adown  this  path  we  came,  Willy, 

"Twas  jusc  at  the  hour  of  eve  ; 
And  will  he,  or  will  he  not,  I  thought, 

My  fluttering  heart  relieve  ? 
So  oft  we  paused  as  we  saimter'd  on, 

'Twas  fear,  and  hope — and  fear  ; 
But  here,  at  the  wood,  as  we  parting  stood, 

'Twas  rapture  his  vows  to  hear  ! 

Of  vows  so  soft — thy  vows,  Willy ! 

Who  would  not,  like  me,  be  proud  ; 
Sweet  lark,  with  thy  soaring,  echoing  song, 

Come  down  from  thy  rosy  cloud, 
Come  down  to  thy  nest,  and  tell  thy  mate — 

But  tell  thy  mate  alone — 
Thou  hast  seen  a  maid  whose  heart  of  love 

Is  as  merry  and  light  as  thy  own. 

W.  Smyth. 


ccxxx. 
THE  FAIR  THIEF. 

BEFORE  the  urchin  well  could  go, 
She  stole  the  whiteness  of  the  snow  ; 
And  more, — that  whiteness  to  adorn, 
She  stole  the  blushes  of  the  morn  : 
Stole  all  the  sweets  that  ether  sheds 
On  primrose  buds  or  violet  beds. 

Still,  to  reveal  her  artful  wiles, 
She  stole  the  Graces' silken  smiles: 
She  stole  Aurora's  balmy  breath, 
And  pilfer'd  Orient  pearl  for  teeth  ; 
The  cherry,  dipt  in  morning  dew, 
Gave  moisture  to  her  lips  and  hue. 

These  were  her  infant  spoils,  a  store 
To  which,  in  time,  she  added  more  ; 


173 


174 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

At  twelve,  she  stole  from  Cyprus'  queen 
Her  air  and  love-commanding  mien  ; 
Stole  Juno's  dignity,  and  stole 
From  Pallas  sense  to  charm  the  soul. 

Apollo's  wit  was  next  her  prey, 
Her  next  the  beam  that  lights  the  day ; 
She  sung  ;  amazed  the  Syrens  heard ; 
And  to  assert  their  voice  appear'd  : 
She  play'd  ;  the  Muses  from  the  hill 
Wonder'd  who  thus  had  stole  their  skill. 

Great  Jove  approved  her  crimes  and  art  ; 
And  t'other  day  she  stole  my  heart. 
If  lovers,  Cupid,  are  thy  care, 
Exert  thy  vengeance  on  this  fair ; 
To  trial  bring  her  stolen  charms, 
And  let  her  prison  be  thy  arms. 

Earl  of  Egremont. 
CCXXXI. 

LOVE  WHAT  IT  Is. 

LOVE  is  a  circle,  that  doth  restless  move 
In  the  same  sweet  eternity  of  love. 

Robert  Her  rick. 


NEED. 

WHO  begs  to  die  for  fear  of  human  need, 
Wisheth  his  body,  not  his  soul,  good  speed. 

Robert  Herrick. 

CCLXXXIII. 
THE  ADVANTAGE  OF  FOREKNOWLEDGE, 

IF  man  might  know 

The  ill  he  must  undergo, 

And  shun  it  so, 

Then  it  were  good  to  know  : 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

But  if  he  undergo  it, 
Though  he  know  it  ? 
What  bools  him  know  it, 
He  must  undergo  it 

Sir  John  Suckling. 

ccxxxiv. 

TREASON  doth  never  prosper — What's  the  reason  ? 
If  it  doth  prosper,  none  dare  call  it  treason. 

Sir  John  Harrington. 

ccxxxv. 

NONE,  without  hope,  e'er  loved  the  brightest  fair, 
But  love  can  hope  when  reason  would  despair. 

George,  Lord  Lyttetton. 

CCXXXVI. 

To  MADAME  DE  DAMAS  LEARNING  ENGLISH. 

THOUGH  British  accents  your  attention  fire, 
You  cannot  learn  so  fast  as  we  admire. 
Scholars  like  you  but  slowly  can  improve, 
For  who  would  teach  you  but  the  verb  "  I  love." 

Horace  Walpole,  Earl  of  Orford. 

CCXXXVI  I. 

As  lamps  burn  silent  with  unconscious  light, 
So  modest  ease  in  beauty  shines  most  bright, 
Unaiming  charms  with  edge  resistless  fall, 
And  she  who  means  no  mischief  does  it  all. 

Aaron  Hill. 

CCXXXVI  1 1. 

I  LOVED  thee,  beautiful  and  kind, 

And  plighted  an  eternal  vow  ; 
So  alter'd  are  thy  face  and  mind, 

'Twere  perjury  to  love  thee  now. 

Robert,  Earl  ATugent. 


'75 


,-g  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

CCXXX1X. 

IGNORANCE  OF  BOTANY. 

I  HARDLY  know  one  flower  that  grows 

On  my  small  garden  plot  ; 
Perhaps  I  may  have  seen  a  Rose, 

And  said,  Forget-me-Not. 

WalterS.  Landor. 


CCXL. 

WHERE  ARE  SIGHS. 

UNLESS  my  senses  are  more  dull, 
Sighs  are  become  less  plentiful. 
Where  are  they  all  ?  these  many  years 
Only  my  own  have  reach'd  my  ears. 

Walter  S.  Landor. 


CCXLI. 

ON  ROBERT  BURNS. 

HE  pass'd  thro'  life's  tempestuous  night, 
A  brilliant,  trembling,  northern  light  ; 
Thro'  years  to  come  he'll  shine  from  far, 
A  fix'd  unsetting,  polar  star. 

James  Montgomery. 


CCXLI  I. 

MY  heart  still  hovering  round  about  you 
I  thought  I  could  not  live  without  you  : 
But  since  we've  been  three  months  asunder, 
How  I  lived  -with  you  is  the  wonder. 

Unknown. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  177 

" 

CCXLIII. 

ON  THE  DISTINGUISHED  SINGER,  Miss  ELLEN  TREE. 

ON  this  Tree  if  a  nightingale  settles  and  sings, 
The  Tree  will  return  her  as  good  as  she  brings. 

Henry  Lutlrell. 


CCXLIV. 

WRITTEN  IN  A  LADY'S  MILTON. 

WITH  virtue  such  as  vours  had  Eve  been  arm'd. 
In  vain  the  fruit  had  blush'd,  the  serpent  charm'd. 
Nor  had  our  bliss  by  penitence  been  bought, 
Nor  had  frail  Adam  fall'n,  nor  Milton  wrote. 

Matthew  Prior. 

CCXLV. 

THE    LADY   WHO    OFFERS     HER    LOOKING-GLASS   TO 
VENUS. 

VENUS,  take  my  votive  glass  ; 
Since  I  am  not  what  I  was, 
What  from  this  day  1  shall  be, 
Venus,  let  me  never  see. 

Matthew  Prior. 


CCXLVI. 

MYRTILLA,  early  on  the  lawn, 
Steals  roses  from  the  blushing  dawn; 
But  when  Myrtilla  sleeps  till  ten, 
Aurora  steals  them  back  again  ? 

Unknown. 


I78  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 


CCXLVII. 

ON  THE  COLLAR  OF  A  DOG  PRESENTED  BY  MR.  POPE  TO 
THE  PRINCE  OF  WALES. 

I  AM  His  Highness'  dog  at  Kew  ; 
Pray,  tell  me,  sir,  whose  dog  are  you  ? 

Alexander  Pope. 


CCXLVIII. 

ON  THE  GREEK  SCHOLAR  GOTTFRIED  HERMANN. 
A  Syllogism,  with  the  Conclusion  Suppressed. 

THE  Germans  in  Greek 
Are  sadly  to  seek  ; 
Not  five  in  five-score 
But  ninety-five  more  ; 
All  save  only  Hermann, 
And — Hermann's  a  German. 

Richard  Person. 

CCXLIX. 

WHEN  late  I  attempted  your  pity  to  move, 
What  made  you  so  deaf  to  my  prayers  : 

Perhaps  it  was  right  to  dissemble  your  love, 
But — why  did  you  kick  me  down  stairs  ? 

Unknown. 

ecu 

JOB. 

SLY  Beelzebub  took  all  occasions 
To  try  Job's  constancy  and  patience. 
He  took  his  honour,  took  his  health ; 
He  took  his  children,  took  his  wealth, 
His  servants,  horses,  oxen,  cows, — 
But  cunning  Satan  did  not  take  his  spouse. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  179 

But  Heaven,  that  brings  out  good  for  evil, 

And  loves  to  disappoint  the  devil, 

Had  predetermined  to  restore 

Twofold  all  he  had  before ; 

His  servants,  horses,  oxen,  cows — 

Short-sighted  devil,  not  to  take  his  spouse  ! 

Samuel  T.  Coleridge. 

CCLI. 

LORD  Erskine,  on  woman  presuming  to  rail, 
Calls  a  wife  "  a  tin  canister  tied  to  one's  tail ;  " 
And  fair  Lady  Anne,  while  the  subject  he  carries  on, 
Seems  hurt  at  his  Lordshp's  degrading  comparison. 
But  wherefore  degrading  ?  consider'd  aright, 
A  canister's  polish'd,  and  useful,  and  bright: 
And  should  dirt  its  original  purity  hide, 
That's  the  fault  of  the  puppy  to  whom  it  is  tied. 

Rt.  Hon.  Richard  B.  Sheridan. 

CCLI  I. 
COLOGNE. 

IN  Koln,  a  town  of  monks  and  bones, 

And  pavement  fang'd  with  murderous  stones, 

And  rags,  and  hags,  and  hideous  wenches  ; 

I  counted  two-and-seventy  stenches, 

All  well  defined,  and  several  stinks  ! 

Ye  nymphs  that  reign  o'er  sewers  and  sinks, 

The  river  Rhine,  it  is  well  known, 

Doth  wash  your  city  of  Cologne  ; 
But  tell  me,  nymphs  !  what  power  divine 
Shall  henceforth  wash  the  river  Rhine  ? 

Samuel  T.  Coleridge. 

CCLI  1 1. 

To  SLEEP. 

COME,  gentle  sleep,  attend  thy  votary's  prayer, 
And,  tho'  Death's  image,  to  my  couch  repair; 
How  sweet,  tho'  lifeless,  yet  with  life  to  lie, 
And  without  dying,  O,  how  sweet  to  die ! 

John  Wolcot. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 
CCLIV. 

To  BEN  JONSON. 

AH  Ben ! 
,        Say  how  or  when 

Shall  we,  thy  guests, 
Meet  at  those  lyric  feasts, 

Made  at  the  Sun, 
The  Dog,  the  Triple-Tim  ; 
Where  we  such  clusters  had, 
As  made  us  nobly  wild,  not  mad  f 

And  yet  each  verse  of  thine 
Out-did  the  meat,  out-did  the  frolic  wine. 

My  Ben ! 
O  come  again, 
Or  send  to  us 
Thy  wits'  great  overplus ; 

But  teach  us  yet 
Wisely  to  husband  it, 
Lest  we  that  talent  spend ; 
And  having  once  brought  to  an  end 

That  precious  stock,  the  store 
Of  such  a  wit,  the  world  should  have  no  more. 

Robert  Her  rick. 


CCLI. 

UNDERNEATH  a  myrtle  shade, 
On  a  bank  of  roses  laid, 
Let  me  drink,  and  let  me  play, 
Let  me  revel  all  the  day. 

Love,  descending  from  his  state, 
On  my  festivals  shall  wait; 
Love  among  my  slaves  shall  shine, 
And  attend  to  fill  me  wine. 

Swift  as  chariot-wheels  we  fly, 
To  the  minute  we  must  die; 
Then  we  moulder  in  an  urn, 
Then  we  shall  to  dust  return. 


LYRA    ELEGANTIARUM.  i5l 

Then  in  vain  you'll  'noint  my  tomb 
With  your  oils  and  your  perfume  ; 
Rather  let  them  now  be  mine, 
Roses  round  my  temples  twine. 

You  who  love  me  now  I  live, 
Give  me  what  you  have  to  give  ; 
Let  Elysium  be  my  care, 
When  the  Gods  shall  send  me  there. 

John  Oldmixon. 

CCLVI 

ON  A  FLY  DRINKING  OUT  OF  His  CUP. 

BUSY,  curious,  thirsty  fly  ! 
Drink  with  me,  and  drink  as  I. 
Freely  welcome  to  my  cup, 
Couldst  thou  sip  and  sip  it  up  : 
Make  the  most  of  life  you  may  ; 
Life  is  short  and  wears  away. 

Both  alike  are  mine  and  thine, 
Hastening  quick  to  their  decline, 
Thine's  a  summer,  mine  no  more, 
Though  repeated  to  threescore.  • 
Threescore  summers,  when  they're  gone, 
Will  appear  as  short  as  one  ! 

William  Oldys. 

CCLVI  I. 

THE  Sages  of  old, 

In  prophecy  told, 
The  cause  of  a  nation's  undoing  ; 

But  our  new  English  breed 

No  prophecies  need, 
For  each  one  here  seeks  his  own  ruin. 

With  grumbling  and  jars, 

We  promote  civil  wars, 
And  preach  up  false  tenets  to  many  ; 

We  snarl,  and  we  bite, 

We  rail,  and  we  fight 
For  Religion,  yet  no  man  has  any. 


182  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

Then  him  let's  commend, 

That  is  true  to  his  friend, 
And  the  Church,  and  the  Senate  would  settle ; 

Who  delights  not  in  blood, 

But  draws  when  he  should, 
And  bravely  stands  brunt  to  the  battle. 

Who  rails  not  at  kings, 

Nor  at  politick  things, 
Nor  treason  will  speak  when  he's  mellow: 

But  takes  a  full  glass, 

To  his  country's  success  ; 
This,  this  is  an  honest,  brave  fellow. 

Unknown. 

CCLVIII. 

SAYS  Plato,  why  should  man  be  vain 

Since  Bounteous  heaven  has  made  him  great  ? 
Why  look  with  insolent  disdain 

On  those  undecked  with  wealth  or  state  ? 
Can  splendid  robes  or  beds  of  down, 

Or  costly  gems  to  deck  the  fair, 
Can  all  the  glories  of  a  crown 

Give  health,  or  ease  the  brow  of  care. 

The  sceptred  king,  the  burthen'd  slave, 

The  humble,  and  the  haughty,  die : 
The  rich,  the  poor,  the  base,  the  brave, 

In  dust  without  distinction  lie ! 
Go,  search  the  tombs  where  monarchs  rest, 

Who  once  the  greatest  titles  bore, — 
The  wealth  and  glory  they  possessed, 

And  all  their  honors,  are  no  more  I 

So  glides  the  meteor  through  the  sky, 

And  spreads  along  a  glided  tram  •- 
But  when  its  short  lived  beauties  die, 

Dissolves  to  common  air  again 
So  'tis  with  us,  my  jovial  souls  ! 

Let  friendship  feign  while  here  we  stay  ; 
Let's  crown  our  jobs  with  flowing  bowls. 

When  Jove  us  calls  we  must  awav. 

Unknown, 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 


183 


WITH  an  honest  old  friend  and  a  merry  old  song, 
And  a  flask  of  old  port,  let  me  sit  the  night  long, 
And  laugh  at  the  malice  of  those  who  repine 
That  they  must  drink  porter  whilst  I  can  drink  wine. 

I  envy  no  mortal  tho'  ever  so  great, 
Nor  scorn  I  a  wretch  for  his  lowly  estate  ; 
But  what  I  abhor  and  esteem  as  a  curse, 
Is  poorness  of  spirit,  not  poorness  of  purse. 

Then  dare  to  be  generous,  dauntless,  and  gay, 
Let  us  merrily  pass  life's  remainder  away  ; 
Upheld  by  our  friends,  we  our  foes  may  despise, 
For  the  more  we  are  envied,  the  higher  we  rise. 

Henry  Carey. 

CCLX, 
CATO'S  ADVICE. 

WHAT  Cato  advises  most  certainly  wise  is, 
Not  always  to  labor,  but  sometimes  to  play, 

To  mingle  sweet  pleasure  with  thirst  after  treasure, 
Indulging  at  night  for  the  toils  of  the  day : 

And  while  the  dull  miser  esteems  himself  wiser 
His  bags  to  increase,  while  his  health  does  decay, 

Our  souls  we  enlighten,  our  fancy  we  brighten, 
And  pass  the  long  evenings  in  pleasure  away. 

All  cheerful  and  hearty,  we  set  aside  party, 

With  some  tender  fair  the  bright  bumper  is  crown'd ; 

Thus  Bacchus  invites  us,  and  Venus  delights  us, 
While  care  in  an  ocean  of  claret  is  drown'd. 

See  here's  our  physician, — we  know  no  ambition, 

But  where  there's  good  wine  and  good  company  found; 

Thus  happy  together,  in  spite  of  all  weather, 

'Tis  sunshine  and  summer  with  us  all  the  year  round  ! 

Henry  Carey. 


I$4  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

CCLXI. 

GOOD  OLD  THINGS. 

IN  the  days  of  my  youth  I've  been  frequently  told, 

That  the  best  of  good  things  are  despised  when  they're  old, 

Yet  I  own,  I'm  so  lost  in  the  modes  of  this  life, 

As  to  prize  an  old  friend,  and  to  love  an  old  wife  ; 

And  the  first  of  enjoyments,  thro'  life,  has  been  mine, 

To  regale  an  old  friend  with  a  flask  of  old  wine. 

In  this  gay  world,  new  fashions  spring  up  every  day, 

And  to  make  room  for  them,  still  the  old  must  give  way  ; 

A  new  fav'rite  at  Court  will  an  old  one  displace, 

And  too  oft  an  old  friend  will  put  on  a  new  face  : 

Yet  the  pride,  pomp,  and  splendour  of  courts  I'd  resign, 

To  regale  an  old  friend  with  a  flask  of  old  wine. 

With  old  England,  by  some  folks,  great  faults  have  been 

found, 
Tho'  they've  since  found  much  greater  on  New  England's 

ground, 

And  the  thief  a  new  region  transportedly  hails, 
Quitting  Old  England's  coast  for  a  trip  to  New  Wales  : 
But  such  transporting  trips,  pleased  with  home,  I'd  decline, 
To  regale  an  old  friend  with  a  flask  of  old  wine. 

By  the  bright  golden  sun,  that  gives  birth  to  the  day, 
Tho'  as  old  as  the  globe  which  he  gilds  with  his  ray, 
And  the  moon,  which,  tho'  new,  every  month,  as  v;e're  told, 
Is  the  same  silver  lamp  near  six  thousand  years  old — 
Could  the  lamp  of  my  life  last  while  sun  and  moon  shine, 
I'd  regale  an  old  friend  with  a  flask  of  old  wine. 

Collins. 

CCLXLIL 

IF  all  be  true  that  I  do  think, 
There  are  five  reasons  we  should  drink; 
Good  wine — a  friend — or  being  dry — 
Or  lest  we  should  be  by  and  by — 
Or  any  other  reason  why. 

Dr.  Henry  Aldrich. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  185 


CCLXIII. 

ON  BREAKING    A    CHINA    QUART-MUG  BELONGING   xc 
THE  SOCIETY  OF  LINCOLN  COLLEGE,  OXFORD 

WHENE'ER  the  cruel  hand  of  death 
Untimely  stops  a  favourite's  breath. 
Muses  in  plaintive  numbers  tell 
How  loved  he  lived — how  mourn'd  he  fell ; 
Catullus  wail'd  his  sparrow's  fate, 
And  Gray  immortalised  his  cat. 
Thrice  tuneful  bards  !  could  I  but  chime  so  clever, 
My  quart,  my  honest  quart,  should  live  for  ever. 

How  weak  is  all  a  mortal's  power 
T'avert  the  death-devoted  hour  ! 
Nor  can  a  shape,  or  beauty  save 
From  the  sure  conquest  of  the  grave. 
In  vain  the  butler's  choicest  care, 
The  master's  wish,  the  bursar's  prayer  ! 

For  when  life's  lengthen'd  to  its  longest  span, 

China  itself  must  fall,  as  well  as  man. 

Can  I  forget  how  oft  my  quart 

Has  soothed  my  care,  and  warm'd  my  heart  ? 

When  barley  lent  its  balmy  aid, 

And  all  its  liquid  charms  display'd  ! 

When  orange  and  the  nut-brown  toast 

Swam  mantling  round  the  spicy  coast ! 

The  pleasing  depth  I  view'd  with  sparkling  eyes, 

Nor  envied  Jove  the  nectar  of  the  skies. 

The  side-board,  on  that  fatal  day, 
When  you  in  glittering  ruins  lay, 
Moum'd  at  thy  loss — in  guggling  tone 
Decanters  poured  out  their  moan — 
A  dimness  hung  on  every  glass — 
Joe  wonder'd  what  the  matter  was — 
Corks,  self-contracted,  freed  the  frantic  beer, 
And  sympathising  tankards  dropt  a  tear. 


,86  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

Where  are  the  flowery  wreaths  that  bound 
In  rosy  rings  thy  chaplets  round  ? 
The  azure  stars  whose  glittering  rays 
Promised  a  happier  length  of  days ! 
The  trees  that  on  thy  border  grew, 
And  blossom'd  with  eternal  blue ! 
Trees,  stars,  and.  flowers  are  scatter'd  on  the  floor, 
And  all  thy  brittle  beauties  are  no  more. 

Hadst  thou  been  form'd  of  coarser  earth, 
Had  Nottingham  but  given  thee  birth  ! 
Or  had  thy  variegated  side 
Of  Stafford's  sable  hue  been  dyed, 
Thy  stately  fabric  had  been  found, 
Though  tables  tumbled  on  the  ground. — 

The  finest  mould  the  soonest  will  decay; 

Hear  this,  ye  fair,  for  you  yourselves  are  clay  ! 

Unknown. 

CCLXIV. 
THE  COUNTRY  WEDDING. 

ALL  you  that  e'er  tasted  of  Swatfal-Hall  beer, 
Or  ever  cried  "  roast-meat"  for  having  been  there, 
To  crown  your  good  cheer,  pray  accept  of  a  catch, 
Now  Harry  and  Betty  have  struck  up  a  match  ! 

Derry  down,  down,  down,  derry  down  ! 

As  things  may  fall  out  which  nobody  would  guess, 
So  it  happens  that  Harry  should  fall  in  with  Bess  : 
May  they  prove  to  each  other  a  mutual  relief; 
To  their  plenty  of  carrots,  I  wish  'em  some  beef ! 

Derry  down,  down,  down,  derry  down  ! 

She  had  a  great  talent  at  roast-meat  and  boil'd, 
And  seldom  it  was  that  her  pudding  was  spoil'd  ; 
Renown'd,  too,  for  dumpling,  and  dripping-pan  sop; 
At  handling  a  dish-clout,  and  twirling  a  mop. 

Derry  down,  down,  down,  derry  down  ! 

To  kitchen-stuff  only  her  thoughts  did  aspire, 
Yet  wit  she'd  enough  to  keep  out  of  the  fire  : 
And  though  in  some  things  she  was  short  of  the  fox, 
It  is  said,  she  had  twenty  good  pounds  in  her  box. 

Derry  down,  down,  down,  derry  down  ! 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  787 

Now  we've  told  you  the  bride's  rare  descent  and  estate, 
'Tis  fit  that  the  bridegroom's  good  parts  we  relate  • 
As  honest  a  ploughman  as  e'er  held  a  plough, 
As  trusty  a  carter  as  e'er  cried,  "  Gee-ho!  " 

Derry  down,  down,  down,  derry  down  1 

So  lovingly  he  with  his  cattle  agreed, 
That  seldom  a  lash  for  his  whip  he  had  need : 
When  a  man  is  so  gentle  and  kind  to  his  horse, 
His  wife  may  expect  that  he'll  not  use  her  worse. 

Derry  down,  down,  down,  derry  down  ! 

With  industry  he  has  collected  the  pence, 
In  thirty  good  pounds  there's  a  great  deal  of  sense, 
And  though  he  suspected  ne'er  was  of  a  plot, 
None  yet  in  good-humor  e'er  called  him  a  sot. 

Derry  down,  down,  down,  derry  down ! 

For  brewing  we  hardly  shall  meet  with  his  fellow, 
His  beer  is  well  hopt,  clear,  substantial,  and  mellow  : 
He  brew'd  the  good  liquor,  she  made  the  good  cake, 
And  as  they  have  brew'd  even  so  let  them  bake. 

Derry  down,  down,  down,  derry  down  ! 

Your  shoes  he  can  cobble,  she  mend  your  old  clothes, 
And  both  are  ingenious  at  darning  of  hose  : 
Then  since  he  has  gotten  the  length  of  her  foot, 
As  they  make  their  own  bed, — so  pray  let  them  go  to't. 

Derry  down,  down,  down,  derry  down  1 

Bid  the  lasses  and  lads  to  the  merry  brown  bowl, 
Whilst  rashers  of  bacon  shall  smoke  on  the  coal: 
Then  Roger  and  Bridget,  and  Robin  and  Nan, 
Hit  'em  each  on  the  nose  with  the  hose,  if  ye  can. 

Derry  down,  down,  down,  derry  down ! 

May  her  wheel  and  his  plough  be  so  happily  sped, 
With  the  best  in  the  parish  to  hold  up  their  head  : 
May  he  load  his  own  wagon  with  butter  and  cheese, 
Whilst  she  rides  to  market  with  turkeys  and  geese. 

Derry  down,  down,  down,  derry  down  ! 

May  he  be  churchwarden,  and  yet  come  to  church, 
Nor  when  in  his  office  take  on  him  too  much  : 
May  she  meet  due  respect,  without  scolding  or  strife, 
And  live  to  drink  tea  with  the  minister's  wifcl 

Derry  down,  down,  down,  derry  down  I 


I $8  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

Rejoice  ye  good  fellows  that  love  a  good  bit, 
To  see  thus  united  the  tap  and  the  spit  ; 
For  as  bread  is  the  staff  of  man's  life,  so  you  know 
Good  drink  is  the  switch  makes  it  merrily  go. 

Derry  down,  down,  down,  derry  down ! 

Then  drink  to  good  neighborhood,  plenty,  and  peace, 
That  our  taxes  may  lessen,  and  weddings  increase  : 
Let  the  high  and  the  low,  like  good  subjects,  agree 
Till  the  courtiers,  for  shame,  grow  as  honest  as  we. 

Derry  down,  down,  down,  derry  down  ! 

Let  conjugal  love  be  the  pride  of  each  swain, 
Let  true-hearted  maids  have  no  cause  to  complain  : 
To  the  Church  pay  her  dues,  to  their  Majesties  honour, 
And  homage  and  rent  to  the  lord  of  the  manor. 

Derry  down,  down,  down,  derry  down  ! 
Unknown. 

CCLXV. 

To  hug  yourself  in  perfect  ease, 

What  could  you  wish  for  more  than  these  ? 

A  healthy,  clean,  paternal  seat. 

Well  shaded  from  the  summer's  heat : 

A  little  parlour-stove,  to  hold 

A  constant  fire  from  winter's  cold  ; 

Where  you  may  sit  and  think,  and  sing, 

Far  off  from  Court — "  God  bless  the  King  !  " 

Safe  from  the  harpies  of  the  law, 
From  party  rage,  and  great  man's  paw  ; 
Have  few  choice  friends  to  your  own  taste,— 
A  wife  agreeable  and  chaste ; 

An  open,  but  yet  cautious  mind, 
Where  guilty  cares  no  entrance  find ; 
Nor  miser's  fears,  nor  envy's  spite, 
To  break  the  Sabbath  of  the  night. 

Plain  equipage,  and  temperate  meals, 
Few  tailor's,  and  no  doctor's  bills ; 
Content  to  take,  as  Heaven  shall  please, 
A  longer  or  a  shorter  lease. 

William  Bedingfield. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 


CCLXVI. 


189 


WHEN  I'm  dead,  on  my  tomb-stone  I  hope  they  will  say ; 

Here  lies  an  old  fellow,  the  foe  of  all  care  ; 
With  the  juice  of  the  grape  he  would  moisten  his  clay, 
And,  wherever  he  went,  frolic  follow'd  him  there. 
With  the  young  he  would  laugh, 
With  the  old  he  would  quaff, 

And  banish  afar  all  traces  of  sorrow  : 
Old  Jerome  would  say — 
"  Though  the  sun  sinks  to-day, 
It  is  certain  to  rise  up  as  gaily  to-morrow." 

Tho'  the  snows  of  old  age  now  may  whiten  his  brow, 

It  never  by  gloom  was  a  moment  e'ercast ; 
His  age,  like  the  sunset  that  gleams  on  us  now, 

Chased  away  with  its  brightness  the  clouds  to  the  last 
With  the  young  he  would  laugh, 
With  the  old  he  would  quaff, 

And  banish  afar  all  traces  of  sorrow  : 
Old  Jerome  would  say — 
"  Though  the  sun  sinks  to-day, 
It  is  certain  to  rise  up  as  gaily  to-morrow." 

Samuel  Beazley. 


CCLXVII. 

THE  TOPER'S  APOLOGY. 

I'M  often  ask'd  by  plodding  souls, 

And  men  of  crafty  tongue, 
What  joy  I  take  in  draining  bowls, 

And  tippling  all  night  long. 
Now,  tho'  these  cautious  knaves  I  scorn, 

For  once  I'll  not  disdain 
To  tell  them  why  I  sit  till  morn, 

And  fill  my  glass  again  : 

'Tis  by  the  glow  my  bumper  gives 
Life's  picture's  mellow  made ; 

The  fading  light  cheu  brightly  lives, 
And  softly  sinks  the  shade ; 


190 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

Some  happier  tint  still  rises  there 

With  every  drop  I  drain — 
And  that  I  think's  a  reason  fair 

To  fill  my  glass  again. 

My  Muse,  too,  when  her  wings  are  dry 

No  frolic  flight  will  take ; 
But  round  a  bowl  she'll  dip  and  fly, 

Like  swallows  round  a  lake. 
Then  if  the  nymph  will  have  her  share, 

Before  she'll  bless  her  swain — 
Why  that  I  think's  a  reason  fair 

To  fill  my  glass  again. 

In  life  I've  rung  all  changes  too, — 

Run  every  pleasure  down, — 
Tried  all  extremes  of  Fancy  through, 

And  lived  with  half  the  town ; 
For  me  there's  nothing  new  or  rare, 

Till  wine  deceives  my  brain — 
And  that  I  think's  a  reason  fair 

To  fill  my  glass  again. 

Then,  many  a  lad  I  liked  is  dead, 

And  many  a  lass  grown  old  ; 
And  as  the  lesson  strikes  my  head, 

My  weary  heart  grows  cold. 
But  wine,  awhile,  drives  off  despair, 

Nay,  bid's  a  hope  remain — 
And  that  I  think's  a  reason  fair 

To  fill  my  glass  again. 

Then,  hipp'd  and  vex'd  at  England's  state 

In  these  convulsive  days, 
I  can't  endure  the  ruin'd  fate 

My  sober  eye  surveys  ; 
But,  'midst  the  bottle's  dazzling  glare, 

I  see  the  gloom  less  plain — 
And  that  I  think's  a  reason  fair 

To  fill  my  glass  again. 

I  find  too  when  I  stint  my  glass, 

And  sit  with  sober  air, 
I'm  prosed  by  some  dull  reasoning  ass 

Who  treads  the  path  of  care  ; 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  jg 

Or,  harder  tax'd,  I'm  forced  to  bear 

Some  coxcomb's  fribbling  strain — 
And  that  I  think's  a  reason  fair 

To  fill  my  glass  again. 

Nay,  don't  we  see  Love's  fetters,  too, 

With  different  holds  entwine  ? 
While  nought  but  death  can  some  undo, 

There's  some  give  way  to  wine, 
With  me  the  lighter  head  I  wear 

The  lighter  hangs  the  chain — 
And  that  I  think  a  reason  fair 

To  fill  my  glass  again. 

And  now  I'll  tell,  to  end  my  song, 

At  what  I  most  repine  ; 
This  cursed  war,  or  right  or  wrong, 

Is  war  against  all  wine  ; 
Nay,  Port,  they  say,  will  soon  be  rare 

As  juice  of  France  or  Spain — 
And  that  I  think's  a  reason  fair 

To  fill  my  glass  again. 

Captain  Charles  Morris, 


CCLXVIII. 

FAREWELL  ! — but  whenever  you  welcome  the  hour, 
That  awakens  the  night-song  of  mirth  in  your  bower, 
Then  think  of  the  friend  who  once  welcomed  it  too 
And  forgot  his  own  griefs  to  be  happy  with  you. 
His  griefs  may  return,  not  a  hope  may  remain 
Of  the  few  that  have  brightened  this  pathway  of  pain, 
But  he  ne'er  will  forget  the  short  vision,  that  threw 
Its  enchantment  around  him,  while  lingering  with  you. 

And  still  on  that  evening,  when  pleasure  fills  up 

To  the  highest  top  sparkle  each  heart  and  each  cup, 

Where'er  my  path  lies,  be  it  gloomy  or  bright, 

My  soul,  happy  friends,  shall  be  with  you  that  night  : 

Shall  join  in  your  revels,  your  sports,  and  your  wiles, 

And  return  to  me,  beaming  all  o'er  with  your  smiles — 

Too  blest,  if  it  tells  me  that,  'mid  the  gay  cheer, 

Some  kind  voice  had  murmur'd,  "  I  wish  he  were  here  !' 


1 92 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 


Let  Fate  do  her  worst,  there  are  relics  of  joy, 
Bright  dreams  of  the  past,  which  she  cannot  destroy ; 
Which  come  in  the  night-time  of  sorrow  and  care, 
And  bring  back  the  features  that  joy  used  to  wear. 
Long,  long  be  my  heart  with  such  memories  fill'd ! 
Like  the  vase,  in  which  roses  have  once  been  distill'd — 
You  may  break,  you  may  shatter  the  vase,  if  you  will, 
But  the  scent  of  the  roses  will  hang  round  it  still. 

Thomas  Moore. 


CCLXIX. 

THE  SHANDON  BELLS. 

WITH  deep  affection, 
And  recollection, 
I  often  think  of 

Those  Shandon  bells, 
Whose  sounds  so  wild  would, 
In  the  days  of  childhood, 
Fling  round  my  cradle 

Their  magic  spells. 
On  this  I  ponder 
Whene'er  I  wander, 
And  thus  grow  fonder, 

Sweet  Cork,  of  thee  ; 
With  thy  bells  of  Shandon, 
That  sound  so  grand  oil 
The  pleasant  waters 

Of  the  river  Lee. 

I've  heard  bells  chiming 
Full  many  a  clime  in, 
Tolling  sublime  in 

Cathedral  shrine, 
While  at  a  glib  rate 
Brass  tongues  would  vibrate — 
But  all  this  music 

Spoke  nought  like  thine  ; 
For  memory  dwelling 
On  each  proud  swelling 
Of  the  belfry  knelling 

Its  bold  notes  free, 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

Made  the  bells  of  Shandon 
Sound  far  more  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 
Of  the  river  Lee. 

I've  heard  bells  tolling 
Old  "  Adrian's  Mole  "  in, 
Their  thunder  rolling 

From  the  Vatican, 
And  cymbals  glorious 
Swinging  uproarious 
In  the  gorgeous  turrets 

Of  N6tre  Dame  ; 
But  thy  sounds  were  sweeter 
Than  the  dome  of  Peter 
Flings  o'er  the  Tiber, 

Pealing  solemnly ; — 

0  !  the  bells  of  Shandon 
Sound  far  more  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 

Of  the  river  Lee. 

There's  a  bell  in  Moscow 
While  on  tower  and  kiosk  O ! 
In  Saint  Sophia 

The  Turkman  gets ; 
And  loud  in  air 
Calls  men  to  prayer 
From  the  tapering  summit 

Of  tall  minarets. 
Such  empty  phantom 

1  freely  grant  them ; 
But  there  is  an  anthem 

More  dear  to  me, — 
'Tisthe  bells  of  Shandon 
That  sound  so  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 

Of  the  river  Lee. 

Frank  Mahony, 


194 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 
CCLXX. 

To  THOMAS  MOORE. 

MY  boat  is  on  the  shore, 

And  my  bark  is  on  the  sea  ; 
But,  before  I  go,  Tom  Moore, 

Here's  a  double  health  to  thee  ! 

Here's  a  sigh  to  those  that  love  mer 
And  a  smile  to  those  who  hate  ; 

And  whatever  sky's  above  me, 
Here's  a  heart  for  every  fate. 

Though  the  ocean  roar  around  me, 
Yet  it  still  shall  bear  me  on  ; 

Though  a  desert  should  surround  me, 
It  hath  springs  that  may  be  won. 

Were't  the  last  drop  in  the.  well, 

As  I  gasp'd  upon  the  brink, 
Ere  my  fainting  spirit  fell, 

'Tis  to  thee  that  I  would  drink. 

With  that  water,  as  this  wine, 

The  libation  I  would  pour 
Should  be — peace  with  thine  and  mine, 

And  a  health  to  thee,  Tom  Moore . 

Lord  Byron. 

CCLXXI. 

IN  his  last  binn  Sir  Peter  lies, 

Who  knew  not  what  it  was  to  frown : 
Death  took  him  mellow,  by  surprise, 

And  in  his  cellar  stopp'd  him  down. 
Thro'  all  our  land  we  could  not  boast 

A  knight  more  gay,  more  prompt  than  he, 
To  rise  and  fill  a  bumper  toast, 

And  pass  it  round  with  three  times  three. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  195 

None  better  knew  the  feast  to  sway, 

Or  keep  mirth's  boat  in  better  trim  ; 
For  nature  had  but  little  clay 

Like  that  of  which  she  moulded  him. 
The  meanest  guest  that  grac'd  his  board 

Was  there  the  freest  of  the  free, 
His  bumper  toast  when  Peter  pour'd, 

And  pass'd  it  round  with  three  times  three. 

He  kept  at  true  good  humour's  mark 

The  social  flow  of  pleasure's  tide  : 
He  never  made  a  brow  look  dark, 

Nor  caused  a  tear,  but  when  he  died. 
No  sorrow  round  his  tomb  should  dwell  : 

More  pleased  his  gay  old  ghost  would  be, 
For  funeral  song,  and  passing  bell, 

To  hear  no  sound  but  three  times  three. 

Thomas  L.  Peacock. 

CCLXXII. 

FILL  the  goblet  again  !  for  I  never  before 
Felt  the  glow  which  now  gladdens  my  heart  to  its  core : 
Let  us  drink !  who  would  not  ?  since,  thro'  life's  varied  round, 
In  the  goblet  alone  no  deception  is  found. 

I  have  tried  in  its  turn  all  that  life  can  supply  ; 

I  have  bask'd  in  the  beam  of  a  dark  rolling  eye  ; 

I  have  loved ! — who  has  not  ? — but  what  heart  can  declare 

That  pleasure  existed  while  passion  was  there  ? 

In  the  days  of  my  youth,  when  the  heart's  in  its  spring, 
And  dreams  that  affection  can  never  take  wing, 
I  had  friends  ! — who  has  not  ? — but  what  tongue  will  avow, 
That  friends,  rosy  wine  !  are  as  faithful  as  thou  ? 

The  heart  of  a  mistress  some  boy  may  estrange, 
Friendship  shifts  with  the  sunbeam-thou  never  can'st  change; 
Thou  grow'st  old — who  does   not? — but  on  earth  what  ap- 
pears, 
Whose  virtues,  like  thine,  still  increase  with  its  years  ? 

Yet  if  blest  to  the  utmost  that  love  can  bestow, 
Should  a  rival  bow  down  to  our  idol  below, 
We  are  jealous ! — who's  not  ? — thou  hast  no  such  alloy, 
For  the  more  that  enjoy  thee,  the  more  we  enjoy. 


196  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

Then  the  season  of  youth  and  its  vanities  past, 
For  refuge  we  fly  to  the  goblet  at  last ; 
There  we  find — do  we  not  ? — in  the  flow  of  the  soul, 
That  truth,  as  of  yore,  is  confined  to  the  bowl. 

When  the  box  of  Pandora  was  open'd  on  earth, 
And  misery's  triumph  commenc'd  over  mirth, 
Hope  was  left, — was  she  not  ? — but  the  goblet  we  kiss, 
And  care  not  for  Hope,  who  are  certain  of  bliss. 

Lord  Byron. 

CCLXXIII. 
THE  UPAS  IN  MARYBONE-LANE. 

A  TREE  grew  in  Java,  whose  pestilent  rind 
A  venom  distill'd  of  the  deadliest  kind ; 
The  Dutch  sent  their  felons  its  juices  to  draw, 
And  who  return'd  safe,  pleaded  pardon  by  law. 

Face-muffled,  the  culprits  crept  into  the  vale, 
Advancing  from  windward  to  'scape  the  death-gale : 
How  few  the  reward  of  their  victory  earn'.l, 
For  ninety-nine  perish'd  for  one  who  return'd ! 

Britannia  this  Upas-tree  bought  of  Mynheer, 
Remov'd  it  thro'  Holland,  and  planted  it  here  ; 
'Tis  now  a  stock  plant,  of  the  genus  wolf's-bane, 
And  one  of  them  blossoms  in  Marybone-lane. 

The  house  that  surrounds  it  stands  first  in  a  row, 
Two  doors,  at  right  angles,  swing  open  beiow  ; 
And  the  children  of  misery  daily  steal  in, 
And  the  poison  they  draw  we  denominate  GIN. 

There  enter  the  prude,  and  the  reprobate  boy, 
The  mother  of  grief,  and  the  daughter  of  joy, 
The  serving-maid  slim,  and  the  serving-man  stout, 
They  quickly  steal  in,  and  they  slowly  reel  out. 

Surcharged  with  the  venom,  some  walk  forth  erect, 
Apparently  baffling  its  deadly  effect; 
But,  sooner  or  later,  the  reckoning  arrives, 
And  ninety-nine  perish  for  one  who  survives. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 


I97 


They  cautious  advance  with  slouch'd  bonnet  and  hat, 
They  enter  at  this  door,  they  go  out  at  that ; 
Some  bear  off  their  burthen  with  riotous  glee, 
But  most  sink,  in  sleep,  at  the  foot  of  the  tree. 

Tax,  Chancellor  Van,  the  Batavian  to  thwart, 
This  compound  of  crime,  at  a  guinea  a  quart ; 
Let  gin  fetch,  per  bottle,  the  price  of  champagne, 
And  hew  down  the  Upas  in  Marybone-lane. 

James  Smith. 


CCLXXIV. 

LINES  SUNG  AT  THE  DINNER  GIVEN  TO  CHARLES  KEMBLE 
WHEN  HE  RETIRED  FROM  THE  STAGE. 

FAREWELL!  all  good  wishes  go  with  him  to-day, 
Rich  in  name,  rich  in  fame,  he  has  play'd  out  the  play. 
Though  the  sock  and  the  buskin  for  aye  be  removed 
Still  he  serves  in  the  train  of  the  drama  he  loved. 
We  now  who  surround  him,  would  make  some  amends 
For  past  years  of  enjoyment — we  court  him  as  friends. 
Our  chief,  nobly  born,  genius  crown'd,  our  zeal  shares, 
O,  his  coronet's  hid  by  the  laurel  he  wears. 

Shall  we  never  again  see  his  spirit  infuse 
Life,  life  in  the  gay  gallant  forms  of  the  Muse, 
Through  the  lovers  and  heroes  of  Shakespeare  he  ran, 
All  the  soul  of  a  soldier,  the  heart  of  the  man — 
Shall  we  never  in  Cyprus  his  spirit  retrace, 
See  him  stroll  into  Angiers  with  indolent  gra 
Or  greet  him  in  bonnet  at  fair  Dunsinane — 
Or  meet  him  in  moonlight  Verona  again  ! 

Let  the  curtain  come  down.     Let  the  scene  pass  away — 
There's  an  autumn  when  summer  has  squander'd  her  day  : 
\Ve  sit  by  the  fire  when  we  can't  by  the  lamp, 
And  re-people  the  banquet,  re-soldier  the  camp. 
O,  nothing  can  rob  us  of  memory's  gold  : 
And  though  he  quit  the  gorgeous,  and  we  may  grow  old, 
With  our  Shakespeare  in  hand,  and  bright  forms  in  our  brain, 
We  can  dream  up  our  Siddons  and  Kembles  again. 

y.  Hamilton  Reynolds. 


ijS  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

CCLXXV. 

SPECTATOR  AB  EXTRA. 

As  I  sat  at  the  Cafe  I  said  to  myself, 
They  may  talk  as  they  please  about  what  they  call  pelf, 
They  may  sneer  as  they  like  about  eating  and  drinking, 
But  help  it  I  cannot,  I  cannot  help  thinking 

How  pleasant  it  is  to  have  money,  heigh-ho 
How  pleasant  it  is  to  have  money. 

I  sit  at  my  table  en  grand  seigneur, 

And  when  I  have  done,  throw  a  crust  to  the  poor  ; 

Not  only  the  pleasure  itself  of  good  living, 

But  also  the  pleasure  of  now  and  then  giving  : 

So  pleasant  it  is  to  have  money,  heigh-ho! 

So  pleasant  it  is  to  have  money. 

They  may  talk  as  they  please  about  what  they  call  pelf, 
And  how  one  ought  never  to  think  of  one's-self, 
How  pleasures  of  thought  surpass  eating  and  drinking, 
My  pleasure  of  thought  is  the  pleasure  of  thinking 

How  pleasant  it  is  to  have  money,  heigh-ho  ! 

How  pleasant  it  is  to  have  money. 

LE  DINER. 

Come  along,  'tis  the  time,  ten  or  more  minutes  past, 

And  he  who  came  first  had  to  wait  for  the  last ; 

The  oysters  ere  this  had  been  in  and  been  out ; 

While  I  have  been  sitting  and  thinking  about 

How  pleasant  it  is  to  have  money,  heigh-ho 
How  pleasant  it  is  to  have  money. 

A  clear  soup  with  eggs  ;  -viola  tout ;  of  the  fish 
The  Jiff  ts  de  sole  are  a  moderate  dish 
A  la  Orly,  but  you're  for  red  mullet,  you  say: 
By  the  gods  of  good  fare,  who  can  question  to-day 

How  pleasant  it  is  to  have  money,  heigh-ho ! 

How  pleasant  it  is  to  have  money. 

After  oysters,  Sauterne ;  then  Sherry  ;  Champagne, 
Ere  one  bottle  goes,  comes  another  again ; 
Fly  up,  thou  bold  cork,  to  the  ceiling  above, 
And  tell  to  our  ears  in  the  sound  that  we  love 

How  pleasant  it  is  to  have  money,  heigh-ho ! 

How  pleasant  it  is  to  have  money. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 


199 


I've  the  simplest  of  palates  ;  absurd  it  may  be, 
But  I  almost  could  dine  on  a poulet-au-riz, 
Fish  and  soup  and  omelette  and  that — but  the  deuce — 
There  were  to  be  woodcocks,  and  not  Charlotte  Kusse  ! 
So  pleasant  it  is  to  have  money,  heigh-ho  I 
So  pleasant  it  is  to  have  money. 

Your  Chablis  is  acid,  away  with  the  hock, 
Give  me  the  pure  juice  of  the  purple  Medoc  ; 
St.  Peray  is  exquisite ;  but,  if  you  please, 
Some  Burgundy  just  before  tasting  the  cheese. 

So  pleasant  it  is  to  have  money,  heigh-ho ' 
So  pleasant  it  is  to  have  money. 

As  for  that,  pass  the  bottle,  and  hang  the  expense — 
I've  seen  it  observed  by  a  writer  of  sense, 
That  the  labouring  classes  could  scarce  live  a  day, 
If  people  like  us  didn't  eat,  drink,  and  pay. 

So  useful  it  is  to  have  money,  heigh-ho ! 

So  useful  it  is  to  have  money. 

One  ought  to  be  grateful,  I  quite  apprehend, 
Having  dinner  and  supper  and  plenty  to  spend, 
And  so  suppose  now,  while  the  things  go  away, 
By  way  of  a  grace  we  all  stand  up  and  say 

How  pleasant  it  is  to  have  money,  heigh-ho! 

How  pleasant  it  is  to  have  money. 

PARVENANT. 

I  cannot  but  ask,  in  the  park  and  the  streets, 
When  I  look  at  the  number  of  persons  one  meets, 
Whate'er  in  the  world  the  poor  devils  can  do 
Whose  fathers  and  mothers  can't  give  them  a  sous, 

So  needful  it  is  to  have  money,  heigh-ho  ! 

So  needful  it  is  to  have  money. 

I  ride,  and  I  drive,  and  I  care  not  a  d n, 

The  people  look  up  and  they  ask  who  I  am ; 
And  if  I  should  chance  to  run  over  a  cad, 
I  can  pay  for  the  damage,  if  ever  so  bad. 

So  useful  it  is  to  have  money, -heigh-ho! 

So  useful  it  is  to  have  money. 

It  was  but  this  winter  I  came  up  to  town, 
And  already  I'm  gaining  a  sort  of  renown ; 


30  LYRA   ELEGANT/ARUM. 

Find  my  way  to  good  houses  without  much  ado, 
Am  beginning  to  see  the  nobility  too. 

So  useful  it  is  to  have  money,  heigh  ho  ! 

So  useful  it  is  to  have  money. 

O  dear  what  a  pity  they  ever  should  lose  it, 

Since  they  are  the  people  who  know  how  to  use  it ; 

So  easy,  so  stately,  such  manners,  such  dinners ; 

And  yet,  after  all,  it  is  we  are  the  winners. 

So  needful  it  is  to  have  money,  heigh-ho 
So  needful  it  is  to  have  money. 

It  is  all  very  well  to  be  handsome  and  tall, 
"Which  certainly  makes  you  look  well  at  a  ball, 
It's  all  very  well  to  be  clever  and  witty, 
But  if  you  are  poor,  why  it's  only  a  pity. 

So  needful  it  is  to  have  money,  heigh-ho  ! 

So  needful  it  is  to  have  money. 

There's  something  undoubtedly  in  a  fine  air, 
To  know  how  to  smile  and  be  able  to  stare. 
High  breeding  is  something,  but  well  bred  or  not, 
In  the  end  the  one  question  is,  what  have  you  got  ? 

So  needful  it  is  to  have  money,  heigh-ho  ! 

So  needful  it  is  to  have  money. 

And  the  angels  in  pink  and  the  angels  in  blue, 
In  muslins  and  moires  so  lovely  and  new, 
What  is  it  they  want,  and  so  wish  you  to  guess, 
But  if  you  have  money,  the  answer  is  yes, 

So  needful,  they  tell  you,  is  money,  heigh-ho ! 

So  needful  it  is  to  have  money. 

Arthur  If.  Cloitgh. 


CCLXXVI. 

THE  GOLDEN  FARMER. 

WHILE  I'm  blest  with  health  and  plenty, 
Let  me  live  a  jolly,  jolly  dog ; 

For  as  blythe  as  five-and-twenty, 
Thro'  the  world  I  wish  to  jog 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

As  for  greater  folks  or  richer, — 

While  I  pay  both  scot  and  lot, 
And  enjoy  my  friend  and  pitcher, 

I've  a  kingdom  in  a  cot  1 

Flocks  and  herds  in  fields,  all  nigh  too, 
Corn  and  clover,  beans  and  pease, 

And  in  hen  yard,  pond  and  stye  too, 
Pigs  and  poultry,  ducks  and  geese. 

While  my  farm  thus  cuts  a  dash  too, 

Poor  folks  daily  labouring  on't, 
Who  plough,  sow,  and  reap,  and  thrash  too, 

I'll  be  thrash' d  if  they  shall  want. 

He  who  sticks  his  knife  in  roast  meat, 

And  for  numbers  has  to  carve, 
May  the  churl  the  whipping-post  meet, 

If  he  stuffs — and  lets  them  starve. 

And  when  I,  like  Neighbour  Squeezum, 
Plot  and  scheme  the  poor  to  drain, 

Or  with  Badger  join,  to  fleece  'em, 
Badger  me  for  a  rogue  in  grain. 

He  for  that  who  tills  and  cultures, 

Now  may  laugh,  but  when  Old  Scratch 

Spreads  his  net  for  sharks  and  vultures, 
What  a  swarm  he'll  have  to  catch  ! 

Heaps  of  grain  then  let  them  hoard  up ; — 
Heaps  of  wealth  while  they  count  o'er, 

All  the  treasures  I  have  stored  up 
Are  the  Blessings  of  the  Poor ! 

Collins. 

CCLXXVII. 

RICH  AND  POOR;  OR,  SAINT  AND  SINNER. 

THE  poor  man's  sins  are  glaring; 
In  the  face  of  ghostly  warning 

He  is  caught  in  the  fact 

Of  an  overt  act — 
Buying  greens  on  Sunday  morning. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

The  rich  man's  sins  are  hidden 
In  the  pomp  of  wealth  and  station  ; 

And  escape  the  sight 

Of  the  children  of  light, 
Who  are  wise  in  their  generation. 

The  rich  man  has  a  kitchen, 
And  cooks  to  dress  his  dinner; 

The  poor  who  would  roast 

To  the  baker's  must  post, 
And  thus  becomes  a  sinner. 

The  rich  man  has  a  cellar, 
And  a  ready  butler  by  him; 

The  poor  must  steer 

For  his  pint  of  beer 
Where  the  Saint  can't  choose  but  spy  him. 

The  rich  man's  painted  windows 
Hide  the  concerts  of  the  quality ; 

The  poor  can  but  share 

A  crack'd  fiddle  in  the  air, 
Which  offends  all  sound  morality. 

The  rich  man  is  invisible 

In  the  crowd  of  his  gay  society; 

But  the  poor  man's  delight 

Is  a  sore  in  the  sight, 
And  a  stench  in  the  nose  of  piety. 

Thomas  L.  Peacock. 


CCLXXVIII. 

THE  Kiss. 

AMONG  thy  fancies,  tell  me  this, 
What  is  the  thing  we  call  a  kiss  ? 
I  shall  resolve  you  what  it  is. 

It  is  a  creature  born  and  bred 
Between  the  lips,  all  cherry-red, 
By  Love  and  warm  desires  fed, 

And  makes  more  soft  the  bridal  bed. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  203 

It  is  an  active  flame,  that  flies 
First  to  the  babies  of  the  eyes, 
And  charms  them  there  with  lullabies, 

And  stills  the  bride,  too,  when  she  cries 

Then  to  the  chin,  the  cheek,  the  ear, 

It  frisks  and  flies, — now  here,  now  there, 

Tis  now  far  off,  and  then  'tis  near, 

And  here,  and  there,  and  everywhere 

Has  it  a  speaking  virtue  ?    Yes. 
How  speaks  it,  say  ?     Do  you  but  this, 
Part  your  join'd  lips,  then  speaks  your  kiss  ; 
And  this  Love's  sweetest  language  is. 

Has  it  a  body  ?    Aye,  and  wings, 
With  thousands  rare  encolourings  ; 
And  as  it  flies,  it  gently  sings, 

Love  honey  yields,  but  never  stings. 

Robert  Herrick. 


CCLXXIX. 

MY  love  and  I  for  kisses  play'd ; 

She  would  keep  stakes,  I  was  content ; 
But  when  I  won  she  would  be  paid, 

This  made  me  ask  her  what  she  meant ; 
Nay,  since  I  see  (quoth  she)  you  wrangle  in  vain, 
Take  your  own  kisses,  give  me  mine  again. 

William  Strode. 

CCLXXX. 

To  A  Kiss. 

SOFT  child  of  Love — thou  balmy  bliss 
Inform  me,  O  delicious  Kiss ! 
Why  thou  so  suddenly  art  gone, 
Lost  in  the  moment  thou  art  won  ? 
Yet,  go — for  wherefore  should  I  sigh  ? — • 
On  Delia's  lip,  with  raptured  eye, 
On  Delia's  blushing  lip,  I  see 
A  thousand  full  as  sweet  as  thee ! 

John  Wolcot. 


204  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

CCLXXXI. 

HER  LIPS. 

OFTEN  I  have  heard  it  said 
That  her  lips  are  ruby-red. 
Little  heed  I  what  they  say, 
I  have  seen  as  red  as  they. 
Ere  she  smiled  on  other  men, 
Real  rubies  were  they  then. 

When  she  kiss'd  me  once  in  play, 
Rubies  were  less  bright  than  they, 
And  less  bright  were  those  that  shone 
In  the  palace  of  the  Sun. 
Will  they  be  as  bright  again  ? 
Not  if  kiss'd  by  other  men. 

Walter  S.  Landor. 

CCLXXX1I. 

ON  A  Kiss. 

PHILOSOPHERS  pretend  to  tell, 
How  like  a  hermit  in  his  cell, 
The  soul  within  the  brain  does  dwell  : 
But  I,  who  am  not  half  so  wise, 
Think  I  have  seen't  in  Chloe's  eyes, 
Down  to  her  lips  from  thence  it  stole, 
And  there  I  kiss'd  her  very  soul. 

Unknown. 

CCLXXXIII. 
THE  AUBURN  LOCK. 

COME,  lovely  lock  of  Julia's  hair, 

The  gift  of  that  bewitching  fair, 

Come,  next  my  heart  shall  thou  be  laid, 

Thou  precious  little  auburn  braid  ! 

Of  Julia's  charms,  O  sacred  part, 

Thou'st  drank  the  pure  stream  of  her  heart ; 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

Thou'st  tended  on  my  love's  repose, 
Thou'st  kiss'd  her  ringers  when  she  rose, 
And,  half  concealing  many  a  grace, 
Giv'n  added  powers  to  that  sweet  face : 
Oft,  careless,  o'er  her  shoulders  flung, 
Down  her  small  waist  redundant  hung; 
And  oft  thy  wanton  curls  have  press'd, 
And  dared  to  kiss  her  snow-white  breast ! 
High  favor'd  lock  !     O,  thou  shall  be 
The  dearest  gift  of  life  to  me. 
Come,  next  my  heart  shall  thou  be  laid, 
Delightful  little  auburn  braid  ! 
And  art  Ihou  mine  ?  and  did  my  fair 
Inlrusl  thee  to  her  lover's  care  ? 
What  streams  of  bliss  wilt  thou  impart, 
Who  drank  the  stream  of  Julia's  heart ! 
O,  thou  shall  be  the  healing  power 
To  soothe  me  in  misfortune's  hour, 
And  oft,  beneath  my  pillow  laid, 
My  soul  in  dreams  will  ask  thine  aid. 
Thou  shall  inspire  wilh  full  delight 
The  fairest  visions  of  the  night ; 
For  thou,  intrusive  lock,  hasl  spread 
And  wantoned  o'er  my  Julia's  bed  ; 
Seen  Ihe  sweel  languish  of  her  eyes, 
Heard  all  her  wishes,  all  her  sighs : 
O,  Ihou  hast  been  divinely  bless'd, 
And  pass'd  whole  nights  on  Julia's  breast. 
Come,  then,  dear  lock  of  Julia's  hair, 
The  gift  of  that  enchanting  fair. 
Come,  next  my  hearl  shall  Ihou  be  laid, 
Delightful  little  auburn  braid ! 

Unknown. 


CCLXXXIV. 

THE  JE  NE  SAIS  Quoi. 

YES,  I'm  in  love,  I  feel  it  now, 
And  Celia  has  undone  me  : 

And  yet  I  swear  I  can't  lell  how 
The  pleasing  pain  stole  on  me. 


205 


206  LYRA   ELEGANTIARUM. 

'Tis  not  her  face  which  love  creates, 

For  there  no  graces  revel: 
'Tis  not  her  shape,  for  there  the  fates 

Have  rather  been  uncivil. 

'Tis  not  her  air,  for  sure  in  that 

There's  nothing  more  than  common  ; 
And  all  her  sense  is  only  chat, 
Like  any  other  woman. 

Her  voice,  her  touch  might  give  th'  alarm  ; 

'Twas  both,  perhaps,  or  neither; 
In  short,  'twas  that  provoking  charm 

Of  Celia  altogether. 

William  Whitehead. 


CCLXXXV. 

MARIAN'S  COMPLAINT. 

SINCE  truth  ha'  left  the  shepherd's  tongue, 
Adieu  the  cheerful  pipe  and  song; 
Adieu  the  dance  at  closing  day, 
And,  ah,  the  happy  morn  of  May. 

How  oft  he  told  me  I  was  fair, 
And  wove  the  garland  for  my  hair ; 
How  oft  for  Marian  stript  the  bower, 
To  fill  my  lap  with  every  flower  ! 

No  more  his  gifts  of  guile  I'll  wear, 
But  from  my  brow  the  chaplet  tear  ; 
The  crook  he  gave  in  pieces  break, 
And  rend  his  ribbons  from  my  neck. 

How  oft  he  vow'd  a  constant  flame, 
And  carved  on  every  oak  my  name ! 
Blush,  Colin,  that  the  wounded  tree 
Is  all  that  will  remember  me. 

John   Wolcot. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

CCLXXXVI, 
SECRET  LOVE. 

I  FEED  a  flame  within,  which  so  torments  me, 
That  it  both  pains  my  heart,  and  yet  contents  me  : 
'Tis  such  a  pleasing  smart,  and  I  so  love  it, 
That  I  had  rather  die,  than  once  remove  it 

Yet  he  for  whom  I  grieve  shall  never  know  it, 
My  tongue  does  not  betray,  nor  my  eye  show  it  : 
No,  sigh,  and  not  a  tear,  my  pain  discloses, 
For  they  fall  silently  like  dew  on  roses. 

Thus  to  prevent  my  love  from  being  cruel, 
My  heart's  the  sacrifice,  as  'tis  the  fuel : 
And  while  I  suffer  thus  to  give  him  quiet, 
My  faith  rewards  my  love,  though  he  deny  it. 

On  his  eyes  will  I  gaze,  and  there  delight  me  ; 
While  I  conceal  my  love,  no  frown  can  fright  me  : 
To  be  more  happy  I  dare  not  aspire  ; 
Nor  can  I  fall  more  low,  mounting  no  higher. 

Unknown. 

CCLXXXVI  I. 

ON  LADY  MARGARET  FORDYCE. 
A  Fragment. 

MARK'D  you  her  cheek  of  roseate  hue  ? 
Mark'd  you  her  eye  of  radiant  blue  ? — 
That  eye,  in  liquid  circles  moving  ! 
That  cheek,  abash'd  at  man's  approving  ! 
The  one  Love's  arrows  darting  round, 
The  other  blushing  at  the  wound. 
Did  she  not  speak,  did  she  not  move, 
Now  Pallas, — now  the  Queen  of  Love  ? 

Rt.  Hon.  Richard  B.  Sheridan. 


207 


208  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 


CCLXXXVIII. 

You  ask  me,  dear  Nancy,  what  makes  me  presume 
That  you  cherish  a  secret  affection  for  me  ? 

When  we  see  the  flowers  bud,  don't  we  look  for  the  bloom? 
Then,  sweetest !  attend  while  I  answer  to  thee. 

When  we  young  men  with  pastimes  the  twilight  beguile, 
I  watch  your  plump  cheek  till  it  dimples  with  joy : 

And  observe,  that  whatever  occasions  the  smile, 
You  give  me  a  glance  ;  but  provokingly  coy. 

Last  month,  when  wild  strawberries,  plucked  in  the  grove, 
Like  beads  on  the  tall  seeded  grass  you  had  strung, 

You  gave  me  the  choicest ;  I  hoped  'twas  for  love  ; 
And  I  told  you  my  hopes  while  the  nightingale  sung. 

Remember  the  viper  : — 'twas  close  at  your  feet, 
How  you  started,  and  threw  yourself  into  my  arms  : 

Not  a  strawberry  there  was  so  ripe  nor  so  sweet 
As  the  lips  which  I  kiss'd,  to  subdue  your  alarms. 

As  I  pull'd  down  the  clusters  of  nuts  for  my  fair, 

What  a  blow  I  received  from  a  strong-bending  bough  ; 

Tho'  Lucy  and  other  gay  lasses  were  there, 

Not  one  of  them  show'd  such  compassion  as  you. 

And  was  it  compassion  ?  by  Heaven  'twas  more  ! 

A  tell-tale  betrays  you; — that  blush  on  your  cheek — 
There  come,  dearest  maid,  all  your  trifling  give  o'er, 

And  whisper  what  candour  will  teach  you  to  speak. 

Can  you  stain  my  fair  honour  with  one  broken  vow  ? 

Can  you  say  that  I've  ever  occasion'd  a  pain  ? 
On  truth's  honest  base  let  your  tenderness  grow  ; 

I  swear  to  be  faithful,  again  and  again. 

Robert  Bloomfield. 

CCLXXXIX. 

WHEN  Cupids  leave  the  Virgin's  face, 
That  long  have  made  her  smiles  their  home  ; 

And  saucy  wrinkles  seize  their  place, 
Tho'  never  once  desired  to  come. 

'Tis  vain  the  killing  art  to  try, 

The  golden  moments  are  gone  by. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

When  jetty  locks  are  turned  to  grey, 
That  form'd  such  charms  for  lovers'  hearts  ; 

When  eyes  are  dim,  and  scarce  can  see, 
That  beam'd  such  fires,  and  threw  such  darts, 

'Tis  vain  the  killing  art  to  try, 

The  golden  moments  are  gone  by. 

Then  wedlock,  girls,  should  share  your  prime, 
And  Love  should  meet  you  with  your  swain  ; 

But  should  you  yield  your  charms  to  time, 
He  gives  you  back  but  sighs  again. 

And  tells  you,  with  a  scornful  eye, 

The  golden  moments  are  gone  by. 

John  Wolcot. 


I  NE'ER  could  any  lustre  see 

In  eyes  that  would  not  look  on  me  : 

I  ne'er  saw  nectar  on  a  lip, 

But  where  my  own  did  hope  to  sip. 

Has  the  maid  who  seeks  my  heart 

Cheeks  of  rose  untouch'd  by  art  ? 

I  will  own  their  colour  true, 

When  yielding  blushes  aid  their  hue. 

Is  her  hand  so  soft  and  pure  ? 
I  must  press  it,  to  be  sure  ; 
Nor  can  I  e'en  be  certain  then, 
Till  it  grateful  press  again. 
Must  I  with  attentive  eye, 
Watch  her  heaving  bosom  sigh  ? 
I  will  do  so — when  I  see 
That  heaving  bosom  sigh  for  me. 

Rt.  Hon.  Richard  B.  Sheridan. 


CCXCI. 

THE  whistling  boy  that  holds  the  plough, 
Lured  by  the  tale  that  soldiers  tell, 

Resolves  to  part,  yet  knows  not  how 
To  leave  the  land  he  loves  so  well  : 

He  now  rejects  the  thought,  and  now 
Looks  o'er  the  lea,  and  sighs,  "  Farewell !  " 


209 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

"  Farewell ! "  the  pensive  maiden  cries. 
Who  dreams  of  London, — dreams  awake, 

But,  when  her  favorite  lad  she  spies, 
With  whom  she  loved  her  way  to  take, 

Then  doubts  within  her  soul  arise, 
And  equal  hopes  her  bosom  shake ! 

Thus,  like  the  boy,  and  like  the  maid, 

I  wish  to  go,  yet  tarry  here ; 
Am  now  resolved,  and  now  afraid  : 

To  minds  disturb'd  old  views  appear 
In  melancholy  dreams  array'd, 

And,  once  indifferent,  now  are  dear, 
How  shall  I  go  my  fate  to  learn  ? 
And  O,  how,  taught,  shall  I  return  ? 

George  Crabbe. 

CCXCIL 

THE  HOURS. 

NE'ER  were  the  Zephyrs  known  disclosing 
More  sweets,  than  when  in  Tempje's  shades 

They  waved  the  lilies,  where  reposing 
Sat  four-and-twenty  lovely  maids. 

Those  lovely  maids  were  call'd  "  the  Hours," 
The  charge  of  Virtue's  flock  they  kept  ; 

And  each  in  turn  employ'd  her  powers 
To  guard  it  while  her  sisters  slept. 

False  Love,  how  simple  souls  thou  cheatest ! 

In  myrtle  bower  that  traitor  near 
Long  watched  an  Hour — the  softest,  sweetest — 

The  evening  Hour,  to  shepherds  dear. 

In  tones  so  bland  he  praised  her  beauty, 
Such  melting  airs  his  pipe  could  play  ; 

The  thoughtless  Hour  forgot  her  duty, 
And  fled  in  Love's  embrace  away. 

Meanwhile  the  foe  was  left  unguarded  ; 

The  wolf  broke  in,  the  lambs  were  slain ; 
And  now  from  Virtue's  train  discarded, 

With  tears  her  sisters  speak  their  pain. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  j 

Time  flies,  and  still  they  weep ;  for  never 

The  fugitive  can  time  restore ; 
An  Hour  once  fled,  has  fled  for  ever, 

And  all  the  rest  shall  smile  no  more  ! 

Matthew  G.  Lewis. 

CCXCIII. 

WITH  FLOWERS  FROM  A  ROMAN  WALL. 

TAKE  these  flowers,  which,  purple  waving, 

On  the  ruin'd  rampart  grew, 
Where,  the  sons  of  freedom  braving, 

Rome's  imperial  standards  flew. 

Warriors  from  the  breach  of  danger 

Pluck  no  longer  laurels  there ; 
They  but  yield  the  passing  stranger 

Wild-flower  wreaths  for  Beauty's  hair. 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 

CCXCIV. 

I  HELD  her  hand,  the  pledge  of  bliss, 

Her  hand  that  trembled  and  withdrew; 
She  bent  her  head  before  my  kiss, 

My  heart  was  sure  that  hers  was  true. 
Now  I  have  told  her  I  must  part, 

She  shakes  my  hand,  she  bids  adieu, 
Nor  shuns  the  kiss.     Alas,  my  heart ! 

Hers  never  was  the  heart  for  you. 

Walter  S.  Landor 


ccxcv. 

You  smiled,  you  spoke,  and  I  believed, 
By  every  word  and  smile  deceived. 

Another  man  would  hope  no  more; 
Nor  hope  I  what  I  hoped  before : 

But  let  not  this  last  wish  be  vain; 
Deceive,  deceive  me  once  again  ! 

Walter  S.  Landor. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 


CCXCVI. 

A  RING  to  me  Cecilia  sends — 

And  what  to  show  ? — that  we  are  friends 

That  she  with  favour  reads  my  lays, 

And  sends  a  token  of  her  praise; 

Such  as  the  nun,  with  heart  of  snow, 

Alight  on  her  Confessor  bestow  ; 

Or  which  some  favourite  nymph  would  pay, 

Upon  her  grandsire's  natal  day, 

And  to  his  trembling  hand  impart 

The  offering  of  a  feeling  heart. 

And  what  shall  I  return  the  fair 

And  flattering  nymph  ? — a  verse  ? — a  prayer  ? — 

For  were  a  Ring  my  present  too, 

I  see  the  smile  that  must  ensue; — 

The  smile  that  pleases  tho'  it  stings, 

And  says,  "  no  more  of  giving  rings: 

Remember,  thirty  years  are  gone, 

Old  friend,  since  you  presented  one ! " 

Well !  one  there  is,  or  one  shall  be, 
To  give  a  ring  instead  of  me  ; 
And  with  it  sacred  vows  for  life 
To  love  the  fair — the  angel-wife : 
In  that  one  act  may  every  grace, 
And  every  blessing  have  their  place — 
And  give  to  future  hours  the  bliss, 
The  charm  of  life,  derived  from  this  : 
And  when  even  love  no  more  supplies — 

When  weary  nature  sinks  to  rest ; — 
May  brighter,  steadier  light  arise, 

And  make  the  parting  moment  blest  ? 

George  Crabbe. 

CCXCVI  I. 

To  IANTHE. 

FROM  you,  lanthe,  little  troubles  pass 
Like  little  ripples  down  a  sunny  river  ; 

Your  pleasures  spring  like  daisies  in  the  grass, 
Cut  down,  and  up  again  as  blythe  as  ever. 

Walter  S.  Landor. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  21$ 

CCXCVIII. 
PRAYER  FOR  INDIFFERENCE. 

OFT  I've  implored  the  gods  in  vain, 

And  pray'd  till  I've  been  weary : 
For  once  I'll  seek  my  wish  to  gain 

Of  Oberon,  the  fairy. 

Sweet  airy  being,  wanton  sprite, 

Who  lurk'st  in  woods  unseen  ; 
And  oft  by  Cynthia's  silver  light, 

Trip'st  gaily  o'er  the  green; 

If  e'er  thy  pitying  heart  was  moved, 

As  ancient  stories  tell ; 
And  for  th'  Athenian  maid  who  loved, 

Thou  sought'st  a  wondrous  spell ; 

O,  de:gn  once  more  t'exert  thy  power,— 

Haply  some  herb  or  tree, 
Sovereign  as  juice  of  western  flower, 

Conceals  a  balm  for  me. 

I  ask  no  kind  return  of  love — 

No  tempting  charm  to  please  ; 
Far  from  the  heart  those  gifts  remove, 

That  sighs  for  peace  and  ease  ! 

Nor  peace,  nor  ease,  the  heart  can  know, 

That,  like  the  needle  true, 
Turns  at  the  touch  of  joy  or  woe  ; 

But,  turning,  trembles  too. 

Far  as  distress  the  soul  can  wound, 

Tis  pain  in  each  degree  : 
'Tis  bliss  but  to  a  certain  bound  ; — 

Beyond  is  agony. 

Then  take  this  treacherous  sense  of  mine, 

Which  dooms  me  still  to  smart  ; 
Which  pleasure  can  to  pain  refine 

To  pain  new  pangs  impart. 


214 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

O  haste  to  shed  the  sovereign  balm, — 
My  shatter'd  nerves  new  string  : 

And  for  my  guest  serenely  calm, 
The  nymph  Indifference  bring! 

At  her  approach,  see  Hope,  see  Fear, 

See  Expectation  fly  ! 
And  Disappointment  in  the  rear, 

That  blasts  the  promised  joy. 

The  tear  which  pity  taught  to  flow, 

The  eye  shall  then  disown  ; 
The  heart  that  melts  for  others'  woe, 

Shall  then  scarce  feel  its  own. 

The  wounds  which  now  each  moment  bleed, 

Each  moment  then  shall  close; 
And  tranquil  days  shall  still  succeed 

To  nights  of  calm  repose. 

O  Fairy  Elf  !  but  grant  me  this, 

This  one  kind  comfort  send ; 
And  so  may  never-fading  bliss 

Thy  flowery  paths  attend  ? 

So  may  the  glow-worm's  glimmering  light 

Thy  tiny  footsteps  lead 
To  some  new  region  of  delight, 

Unknown  to  mortal  tread  1 

And  be  thy  acorn  goblet  fill'd 
With  Heaven's  ambrosial  dew  : 

From  sweetest,  freshest  flowers  distill'd, 
That  shed  fresh  sweets  for  you  ! 

And  what  of  life  remains  for  me, 

I'll  pass  in  sober  ease  ; 
Half-pleased,  contented  will  I  be, 

Content  but  half  to  please. 

Mrs.  Fanny  Greville. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 
CCXCIX. 

THE  DRAGON-FLY. 

LIFE  (priest  and  poet  say)  is  but  a  dream; 
I  wish  no  happier  one  than  to  be  laid 
Beneath  some  cool  syringa's  scented  shade, 

Or  wavy  willow,  by  the  running  stream, 
Brimful  of  moral,  where  the  Dragon  fly 
Wanders  as  careless  and  content  as  I. 

Thanks  for  this  fancy,  insect  king, 
Of  purple  crest  and  meshy  wing. 
Who,  with  indifference,  givest  up 
The  water-lily's  golden  cup, 
To  come  again  and  overlook 
What  I  am  writing  in  my  book. 
Believe  me,  most  who  read  the  line 
Will  read  with  hornier  eyes  than  thine  : 
And  yet  their  souls  shall  live  for  ever, 
And  thine  drop  dead  into  the  river  ! 
God  pardon  them,  O  insect  king, 
Who  fancy  so  unjust  a  thing ! 

Walter  S.  Landor. 
ccc. 
A    FRAGMENT. 

LIFE!  I  know  not  what  thou  art, 
But  know  that  thou  and  I  must  part ; 
And  when,  or  how,  or  where  we  met, 
I  own  to  me's  a  secret  yet. 

Life  !  we  have  been  long  together 
Through  pleasant  and  through  cloudy  weather ; 
'Tis  hard  to  part  when  friends  are  dear — 
Perhaps  'twill  cost  a  sigh,  a  tear  ; 
Then  steal  away,  give  little  warning, 

Choose  thine  own  time  ; 
Say  not  good  night, — but  in  some  brighter  clime 

Bid  me  good  morning. 

A.  L.  Barbaiild, 


2l6  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 


A  FRAGMENT. 

Go,  rose,  my  Chloe's  bosom  grace  ; 

How  happy  should  I  prove, 
Might  I  supply  that  envied  place 

With  never-fading  love  ! 
There,  Phoenix-like,  beneath  her  eye, 

Involved  in  fragrance,  burn  and  die. 

Know,  hapless  flower,  that  thou  shalt  find 

More  fragrant  roses  there, 
I  see  thy  withering  head  reclined 

With  envy  and  despair  ; 
One  common  fate  we  both  must  prove  ; 
You  die  with  envy,  I  with  love. 

John  Gay. 

CCCII. 

THE  WHITE  ROSE. 
Sent  by  a  Yorkist  Gentleman  to  his  Lancastrian  Mistress. 

IF  this  fair  rose  offend  thy  sight, 

Placed  in  thy  bosom  bare, 
'Twill  blush  to  find  itself  less  white 

And  turn  Lancastrian  there. 

But  if  thy  ruby  lip  it  spy, — 
As  kiss  it  thou  mayst  deign, — 

With  envy  pale  'twill  lose  its  dye, 
And  Yorkshire  turn  again. 

Unknown. 

CCCIII. 

To ASLEEP. 

SLEEP  on,  and  dream  of  Heaven  awhile. 

Tho'  shut  so  close  thy  laughing  eyes, 
Thy  rosy  lips  still  wear  a  smile, 

And  move,  and  breathe  delicious  sighs  ! — 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  217 

Ah,  now  soft  blushes  linge  her  cheeks, 

And  mantle  o'er  her  neck  of  snow. 
Ah,  now  she  murmurs,  now  she  speaks 

What  most  I  wish — and  fear  to  know. 

She  starts,  she  trembles,  and  she  weeps  ! 

Her  fair  hands  folded  on  her  breast. 
And  now,  how  like  a  saint  she  sleeps  ! 

A  seraph  in  the  realms  of  rest ! 

Sleep  on  secure  !  above  control, 

Thy  thoughts  belong  to  Heaven  and  thee! 

And  may  the  secret  of  thy  soul 
Remain  within  its  sanctuary  ! 

Samuel  Rogers. 

ccciv. 
To  A  YOUNG  LADY  ON  HER  RECOVERY  FROM  A  FEVER. 

WHY  need  I  say,  Louisa  dear  ! 
How  glad  I  am  to  see  you  here, 

A  lovely  convalescent; 
Risen  from  the  bed  of  pain  and  fear, 

And  feverish  heat  incessant. 

The  sunny  showers,  the  dappled  sky, 
The  little  birds  that  warble  high, 

Their  vernal  loves  commencing, 
Will  better  welcome  you  than  I 

With  their  sweet  influencing. 

Believe  me,  while  in  bed  you  lay, 
Your  danger  taught  us  all  to  pray : 

You  made  us  grow  devouter ! 
Each  eye  look'd  up  and  seem'd  to  say, 

How  can  we  do  without  her  ? 

Besides,  what  vex'd  us  worse,  we  knew 
They  had  no  need  of  such  as  you 

In  the  place  where  you  were  going  ; 
This  world  has  angels  all  too  few, 

And  Heaven  is  overflowing  1 

Samuel  T,  Coleridge. 


2i8  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 


CCCV. 

To  A  YOUNG  LADY  WHO  HAD   BEEN  REPROACHED  FOR 
TAKING  LONG  WALKS  IN  THE  COUNTRY. 

DEAR  child  of  nature,  let  them  rail ! 
There  is  a  nest  in  a  green  dale, 

A  harbor  and  a  hold  ; 
Where  thou,  a  friend  and  wife,  shalt  see 
Thy  own  heart-stirring  days,  and  be 

A  light  to  young  and  old. 

There,  healthy  as  a  shepherd  boy, 
And  treading  among  flowers  of  joy 

Which  at  no  season  fade, 
Thou,  while  thy  babes  around  thee  cling, 
Shalt  show  us  how  divine  a  thing 

A  woman  may  be  made. 

Thy  thoughts  and  feelings  shall  not  die, 
Nor  leave  thee,  when  grey  hairs  are  nigh, 

A  melancholy  slave  ; 
But  an  old  age  serene  and  bright, 
And  lovely  as  a  Lapland  night, 

Shall  lead  thee  to  thy  grave. 

William  Wordsworth. 


ON  A  TEAR. 

OH  !  that  the  chemist's  magic  art 

Could  crystallize  this  sacred  treasure  ! 

Long  should  it  glitter  near  my  heart, 
A  secret  source  of  pensive  pleasure. 

The  little  brilliant,  ere  it  fell, 
Its  lustre  caught  from  Chloe's  eye  : 

Then,  trembling,  left  its  coral  cell — 
The  spring  of  sensibility  ! 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  2lg 

Sweet  drop  of  pure  and  pearly  light ! 

In  thee  the  rays  of  Virtue  shine  ; 
More  calmly  clear,  more  mildly  bright, 

Than  any  gem  that  gilds  the  mine. 

Benign  restorer  of  the  soul ! 

Who  ever  fly'st  to  bring  r-elief, 
When  first  we  feel  the  rude  control 

Of  Love  or  Pity,  Joy  or  Grief. 

The  sage's  and  the  poet's  theme, 

In  every  clime,  in  every  age; 
Thou  charm'st  in  Fancy's  idle  dream, 

In  Reason's  philosophic  page. 

That  very  law  which  moulds  a  tear, 

And  bids  it  trickle  from  its  source, 
That  law  preserves  the  earth  a  sphere, 

And  guides  the  planets  in  their  course. 

Samuel  Rogers. 

cccvn. 
TEARS. 

MINE  fall,  and  yet  a  tear  of  hers 
Would  swell,  not  soothe  their  pain  ; 

Ah,  if  she  look  but  at  these  tears 
They  do  not  fall  in  vain. 

Walter  S.  Landor. 


CCCVIII. 

To  . 

Go — you  may  call  it  madness,  folly, 
You  shall  not  chase  my  gloom  away ; 

There's  such  a  charm  in  melancholy, 
I  would  not,  if  I  could,  be  gay. 

O,  if  you  knew  the  pensive  pleasure 
That  fills  my  bosom  when  I  sigh, 

You  would  not  rob  me  of  a  treasure 
Monarchs  are  too  poor  to  buy. 

Samuel  Rogers. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 


CCCIX. 

TWENTY  years  hence  my  eyes  may  grow 

If  not  quite  dim,  yet  rather  so, 

Yet  yours  from  others  they  shall  know 

Twenty  years  hence. 

Twenty  years  hence,  tho'  it  may  hap 
That  I  be  called  to  take  a  nap 
In  a  cool  cell  where  thunder  clap 

Was  never  heard. 

There  breathe  but  o'er  my  arch  of  grass 

A  not  too-sadly  sigh'd  alas, 

And  I  shall  catch,  ere  you  can  pass, 

That  winged  word. 

Walter  S.  Landor. 


cccx. 

FLY  from  the  world,  O  Bessy,  to  me, 

Thou  wilt  never  find  any  sincerer  ; 
I'll  give  up  the  world,  O  Bessy,  for  thee, 

I  can  never  meet  any  that's  dearer. 
Then  tell  me  no  more,  with  a  tear  and  a  sigh, 

That  our  loves  will  be  censured  by  many : 
All,  all  have  their  follies,  and  who  will  deny 

That  ours  is  the  sweetest  of  any  ? 

When  your  lip  has  met  mine,  in  communion  so  sweet, 

Have  we  felt  as  if  virtue  forbid  it  ? 
Have  we  felt  as  if  Heaven  denied  them  to  meet? 

No,  rather,  'twas  Heaven  that  did  it. 
So  innocent,  love,  is  the  joy  we  then  sip, 

So  little  of  wrong  is  there  in  it, 
That  I  wish  all  my  errors  were  lodged  on  your  lip, 

And  I'd  kiss  them  away  in  a  minute. 

Then  come  to  your  love  :  O  !  fly  to  his  shed, 
From  a  world  which  I  know  thou  despisest ; 

And  slumber  will  hover  as  light  o'er  our  head 
As  e'er  on  the  couch  of  the  wisest. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  221 

And  when  o'er  our  pillow  the  tempest  is  driven, 

And  thou,  pretty  innocent,  fearest, 
I'll  tell  thee,  it  is  not  the  chiding  of  Heaven, 

'Tis  only  our  lullaby,  dearest. 

And,  O  !  when  we  lie  on  our  deathbed,  my  love, 

Looking  back  on  the  scene  of  our  errors, 
A  sigh  from  my  Bessy  shall  plead  then  above, 

And  death  be  disarm' d  of  his  terrors. 
And  each  to  the  other  embracing  will  say, 

"  Farewell,  let  us  hope  we're  forgiven." 
Thy  last  fading  glance  will  illumine  the  way, 

And  a  kiss  be  our  passport  to  heaven  ! 

Thomas  Moore. 


STANZAS   WRITTEN  ON  THE  ROAD  BETWEEN  FLORENCE 
AND  PISA. 

O,  TALK  not  to  me  of  a  name  great  in  story  ; 
The  days  of  our  youth  are  the  days  of  our  glory ; 
And  the  myrtle  and  ivy  of  sweet  two-and-twenty 
Are  worth  all  your  laurels,  tho'  ever  so  plenty. 

What  are  garlands  and  crowns  to  the  brow  that  is  wrinkled  ? 
'Tis  but  as  a  dead  flower  with  May-dew  besprinkled: 
Then  away  with  all  such  from  the  head  that  is  hoary ! 
What  care  I  for  the  wreaths  that  can  only  give  glory  ? 

O,  FAME  !  if  I  e'er  took  delight  in  thy  praises, 
'Twas  less  for  the  sake  of  thy  high-sounding  phrases, 
Than  to  see  the  bright  eyes  of  the  dear  one  discover 
She  thought  that  I  was  not  unworthy  to  love  her. 

There  chiefly  I  sought  thee,  there  only  I  found  thee  ; 
Her  glance  was  the  best  of  the  rays  that  surround  thee  ; 
When  its  spark  led  o'er  aught  that  was  bright  in  my  story, 
I  knew  it  was  love,  and  I  felt  it  was  glory. 

Lord  Byron. 


222  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM, 

CCCXII. 

TO-MORROW. 

IN  the  downhill  of  life  when  I  find  I'm  declining, 

May  my  fate  no  less  fortunate  be, 
Than  a  snug  elbow-chair  will  afford  for  reclining, 

And  a  cot  that  o'erlooks  the  wide  sea  ; 
With  an  ambling  pad  pony  to  pace  o'er  the  lawn, 

While  I  carol  away  idle  sorrow  ; 
And,  blythe  as  the  lark  that  each  day  hails  the  dawn, 

Look  forward  with  hope  to  To-morrow. 

With  a  porch  at  my  door,  both  for  shelter  and  shade,  too, 

As  the  sunshine  or  rain  may  prevail ; 
And  a  small  spot  of  ground  for  the  use  of  the  spade,  too, 

With  a  barn  for  the  use  of  the  flail  : 
A  cow  for  my  dairy,  a  dog  for  my  game, 

And  a  purse  when  a  man  wants  to  borrow, 
I'll  envy  no  nabob,  his  riches  or  fame, 

Or  what  honours  may  wait  him  To-morrow. 

From  the  bleak  northern  blast  may  my  cot  be  completely 

Secured,  by  a  neighbouring  hill ; 
And  at  night  may  repose  steal  upon  me  more  sweetly, 

By  the  sound  of  a  murmuring  rill  : 
And  while  peace  and  plenty  I  find  at  my  board, 

With  a  heart  free  from  sickness  and  sorrow, 
With  my  friends  let  me  share  what  to-day  may  afford, 

And  Jet  them  spread  the  table  To-morrow. 

And  when  I,  at  last,  must  throw  off  this  frail  covering, 

Which  I've  worn  for  threescore  years  and  ten, 
On  the  brink  of  the  grave  I'll  not  seek  to  keep  hovering, 

Nor  my  thread  wish  to  spin  o'er  again ; 
But  my  face  in  the  glass  I'll  serenely  survey, 

And  with  smiles  count  each  wrinkle  and  furrow, 
As  this  old  worn-out  stuff,  which  is  threadbare  to-day, 

May  become  Everlasting  To-morrow. 

—  Collins. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUAT. 
CCCXIII. 

A  WISH. 

MINE  be  a  cot  beside  the  hill ; 

A  bee-hive's  hum  shall  soothe  my  ear 
A  willowy  brook,  that  turns  a  mill, 

With  many  a  fall  shall  linger  near. 

The  swallow,  oft  beneath  my  thatch, 
Shall  twitter  from  her  clay-built  nest; 

Oft  shall  the  pilgrim  lift  the  latch, 
And  share  my  meal,  a  welcome  guest. 

Around  my  ivied  porch  shall  spring 

Each  fragrant  flower  that  drinks  the  dew ; 

And  Lucy,  at  her  wheel  shall  sing 
In  russet  gown  and  apron  blue. 

The  village  church,  among  the  trees, 

Where  first  our  marriage-vows  were  given, 

With  merry  peals  shall  swell  the  breeze, 
And  point  with  taper  spire  to  heaven. 

Samuel  Rogers. 


cccxiv. 
THE  POPLAR  FIELD 

THE  poplars  are  fell'd,  farewell  to  the  shade, 
And  the  whispering  sound  of  the  cool  colonnade; 
The  winds  play  no  longer  and  sing  in  the  leaves, 
Nor  Ouse  on  his  bosom  their  image  receives. 

Twelve  years  have  elapsed  since  I  last  took  a  view 
Of  my  favourite  field,  and  the  bank  where  they  grew; 
And  now  in  the  grass  behold  they  are  laid, 
And  the  tree  is  my  seat,  that  once  lent  me  a  shade. 

The  blackbird  has  fled  to  another  retreat, 
Where  the  hazels  afford  him  a  screen  from  the  heat, 
And  the  scene,  where  his  melody  charm'd  me  before, 
Resounds  with  his  sweet-flowing  ditty  no  more. 


223 


224  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

My  fugitive  years  are  all  hasting  away, 

And  I  must  ere  long  lie  as  lowly  as  they, 

With  a  turf  on  my  breast,  and  a  stone  at  my  head, 

Ere  another  such  grove  shall  arise  in  its  stead. 

Tis  a  sight  to  engage  me,  if  anything  can, 
To  muse  on  the  perishing  pleasures  of  man  ; 
Though  his  life  be  a  dream,  his  enjoyments,  I  see, 
Have  a  being  less  durable  even  than  he. 

cccxv. 

I  KNEW  by  the  smoke  that  so  gracefully  curl'd 
Above  the  green  elms,  that  a  cottage  was  near, 

And  I  said,  "  if  there's  peace  to  be  found  in  the  world, 
A  heart  that  was  humble  might  hope  for  it  here  !  " 

It  was  noon,  and  on  flowers  that  languish'd  around 

In  silence  reposed  the  voluptuous  bee ; 
Every  leaf  was  at  rest,  and  I  heard  not  a  sound 

But  the  woodpecker  tapping  the  hollow  beech-tree. 

And,  "  here  in  this  lone  little  wood,"  I  exclaim'd, 
"  With  a  maid  who  was  lovely  to  soul  and  to  eye, 

Who  would  blush  when  I  praised  her,  and  weep  if  I  blamed, 
How  blest  could  I  live,  and  how  calm  could  I  die ! 

"  By  the  shade  of  yon  sumach,  whose  red  berry  dips 
In  the  gush  of  the  fountain,  how  sweet  to  recline, 

And  to  know  that  1  sigh'd  upon  innocent  lips, 

Which  had  never  been  sigh'd  on  by  any  but  mine  !  " 

Thomas  Moore. 


CCCXV  I. 

AH  !  what  avails  the  sceptred  race, 

Ah  I  what  the  form  divine ! 
What  every  virtue,  every  grace  ! 

Rose  Aylmer,  all  were  thine. 
Rose  Aylmer,  whom  these  wakeful  eyes 

May  weep,  but  never  see, 
A  night  of  memories  and  of  sighs 

I  consecrate  to  thee. 

Walter  S.  Landor. 


LYRA  ELEGANT1ARUM.  225 

CCCXVII. 

AN  ITALIAN  SONG. 

DEAR  is  my  little  native  vale. 

The  ringdove  builds  and  murmurs  there ; 
Close  to  my  cot  she  tells  her  tale 

To  every  passing  villager. 
The  squirrel  leaps  from  tree  to  tree, 
And  shells  his  nut  at  liberty. 

In  orange-groves  and  myrtle-bowers, 
That  breathe  a  gale  of  fragrance  round, 

I  charm  the  fairy-footed  hours 

With  my  loved  lute's  romantic  sound; 

Or  crowns  of  living  laurel  weave, 

For  those  that  win  the  race  at  eve. 

The  shepherd's  horn  at  break  of  day, 

The  ballet  danced  in  twilight  glade, 
The  canzonet  and  roundelay 

Sung  in  the  silent  green-wood  shade  ; 
These  simple  joys,  that  never  fail, 
Shall  bind  me  to  my  native  vale. 

Samuel  Rogers, 

CCCXVIII. 

To  his  young  Rose  an  old  man  said, 
"  You  will  be  sweet  when  I  am  dead : 
Where  skies  are  brightest  we  shall  meet, 
And  there  will  you  be  yet  more  sweet, 
Leaving  your  winged  company 
To  waste  an  idle  thought  on  me." 

Walter  S.  Landor. 

CCCXIX. 

SOMETHING  CHILDISH  BUT  VERY  NATURAL. 

IF  I  had  but  two  little  wings, 
And  were  a  little  feathery  bird, 

To  you  I'd  fly,  my  dear ! 
But  thoughts  like  these  are  idle  things, 

And  I  stay  here. 


226  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

But  in  my  sleep  to  you  I  fly  ; 
I'm  always  with  you  in  my  sleep, 

The  world  is  all  one's  own. 
But  then  one  wakes,  and  where  am  I  ? 

All,  all  alone. 

Sleep  stays  not,  though  a  monarch  bids  : 
So  I  love  to  wake  ere  break  of  day : 

For  tho'  my  sleep  be  gone, 
Yet,  while  'tis  dark,  one  shuts  one's  lids, 
And  still  dreams  on. 

Samuel  T.  Coleridge. 


cccxx. 
ROSES  AND  THORNS. 

WHY  do  our  joys  depart 
For  cares  to  seize  the  heart  ? 
I  know  not.     Nature  says, 
Obey ;  and  man  obeys. 
I  see,  and  know  not  why 
Thorns  live  and  roses  die. 

Walter  S.  Landor. 

CCCXXI. 

While  thou  wert  by 

With  laughing  eye, 
I  felt  the  glow  and  song  of  spring ; 

Now  thou  art  gone 

I  sit  alone, 
Nor  heed  who  smile  nor  hear  who  sing. 

Walter  S.  Landor. 
CCCXXII. 

THE  POET'S  NEW-YEAR'S  GIFT. 
To  Lady  Throckmorton. 

MARIA  I  I  have  every  good 
For  thee  wish'd  many  a  time, 

Both  sad,  and  in  a  cheerful  mood, 
But  never  yet  in  rhyme. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  227 

To  wish  thee  fairer  is  no  need, 

More  prudent,  or  more  sprightly, 
Or  more  ingenious,  or  more  freed 

From  temper-flaws  unsightly. 

What  favour  then  not  yet  possess'd, 

Can  I  for  thee  require, 
In  wedded  love  already  bless'd 

To  thy  whole  heart's  desire  ? 

None  here  is  happy  but  in  part : 

Full  bliss  is  bliss  divine  ; 
There  dwells  some  wish  in  every  heart, 

And  doubtless  one  in  thine. 

That  wish,  on  some  fair  future  day, 

Which  Fate  shall  brightly  gild, 
('Tis  blameless,  be  it  what  it  may) 

I  wish  it  all  fulfill'd. 

William  Cowper. 


cccxxin. 
THE  SHORTEST  DAY. 

THE  day  of  brightest  dawn  (day  soonest  flown  !) 
Is  that  when  we  have  met  and  you  have  gone. 

Walter  S.  Landor. 

cccxxiv. 
To  A  FAIR  MAIDEN. 

FAIR  maiden !  when  I  look  at  thee 
I  wish  I  could  be  young  and  free ; 
But  both  at  once,  Ah  !  who  could  be  ? 

Walter  S.  Landor. 


22S  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

CCCXXV. 

To  A  LADY. 

Tis  not  the  lily  brow  I  prize, 

Nor  roseate  cheeks  nor  sunny  eyes, — 

Enough  of  lilies  and  of  roses  ! 
A  thousand  fold  more  dear  to  me 

The  look  that  gentle  love  discloses, — 
That  Look  which  Love  alone  can  see. 

Samuel  T.  Coleridge. 

cccxxvi. 

ONE  year  ago  my  path  was  green, 
My  footstep  light,  my  brow  serene; 
Alas !  and  could  it  have  been  so 
One  year  ago  ? 

There  is  a  love  that  is  to  last 
When  the  hot  days  of  youth  are  past : 
Such  love  did  a  sweet  maid  bestow 
One  year  ago. 

I  took  a  leaflet  from  her  braid 
And  gave  it  to  another  maid. 
Love  !  broken  should  have  been  thy  bow 
One  year  ago. 

Walter  S.  Landor. 


cccxxvir. 
To  HESTER  SAVORY. 

WHEN  maidens  such  as  Hester  die, 
Their  place  we  may  not  well  supply, 
Though  we  among  a  thousand  try 

With  vain  endeavour. 
A  month  or  more  hath  she  been  dead, 
Yet  cannot  I  by  force  be  led 
To  think  upon  the  wormy  bed 

And  her  together. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 


229 


A  springy  motion  in  her  gait, 

A  rising  step,  did  indicate 

Of  pride  and  joy  no  common  rate 

That  flush'd  her  spirit  : 
I  know  not  by  what  name  beside 
I  shall  it  call ;  if  'twas  not  pride, 
It  was  a  joy  to  that  allied 

She  did  inherit. 

Her  parents  held  the  Quaker  rule 
Which  doth  the  human  feeling  cool ; 
But  she  was  train'd  in  Nature's  school, 

Nature  had  blest  her. 
A  waking  eye,  a  prying  mind, 
A  heart  that  stirs,  is  hard  to  bind  ; 
A  hawk's  keen  sight  ye  cannot  blind, 

Ye  could  not  Hester. 

My  sprightly  neighbour !  gone  before 
To  that  unknown  and  silent  shore, 
Shall  we  not  meet,  as  heretofore 

Some  summer  morning — 
When  from  thy  cheerful  eyes  a  ray 
Hath  struck  a  bliss  upon  the  day, 
A  bliss  that  would  not  go  away, 

A  sweet  forewarning  ? 

Charles  Lamb. 


cccxxviir. 

MY  Lilla  gave  me  yestermorn 
A  rose,  methinks  in  Eden  born, 
And  as  she  gave  it,  little  elf  ! 
She  blush'd  like  any  rose  herself. 
Then  said  I,  full  of  tenderness, 

"  Since  this  sweet  rose  I  owe  to  you, 
Dear  girl,  why  may  I  not  possess 

The  lovelier  Rose  that  gave  it  too  ?  " 

Unknown. 


270  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

CCCXXIX. 

MARGARET  AND  DORA. 

MARGARET'S  beauteous — Grecian  arts 

Ne'er  drew  form  completer, 
Yet  why,  in  my  heart  of  hearts, 

Hold  I  Dora's  sweeter  ? 

Dora's  eyes  of  heavenly  blue 

Pass  all  paintings'  reach, 
Ringdove's  notes  are  discord  to 
The  music  of  her  speech. 

Artists  !  Margaret's  smile  receive, 

And  on  canvas  show  it  ; 
But  for  perfect  worship  leave 

Dora  to  her  poet 

Thomas  Campbell. 

cccxxx. 
THE  ADIEU. 

MORAVIANS  their  minstrelsy  bring 
The  death-bed  with  music  to  smooth  ; 

So  you,  lovely  comforter,  sing 
My  pangs  of  departure  to  soothe  ! 

You  sing — but  mv  silent  adieu 
A  sorrow  still  teener  will  prove  ; 

You  lose  but  one  friend  who  loves  you, 
How  many  I  lose  whom  I  love  ! 

When  we  go  from  each  pleasure  refined, 
Which  the  sense  or  the  soul  can  receive 

With  no  hope  in  our  wanderings  to  find 
One  ray  of  the  sunshine  we  leave  : 

An  adieu  should  in  utterance  die, 

Or  if  written,  but  faintly  appear  ; 
Only  heard  thro'  the  burst  of  a  sigh, 

Only  read  thro'  the  blot  of  a  tear  ! 

Honble.  William  R.  Spencer. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  231 

CCCXXXI. 

DEAR  FANNY. 

"  SHE  has  beauty,  but  still  you  must  keep  your  heart  cool  ; 

She  has  wit,  but  you  musn't  be  caught  so:  " 
Thus  Reason  advises,  but  Reason's  a  fool, 
And  'tis  not  the  first  time  I  have  thought  so, 

Dear  Fanny, 
Tis  not  the  first  time  I  have  thought  so. 

"  She  is  lovely  then  love  her,  nor  let  the  bliss  fly; 
'Tis  the  charm  of  youth's  vanishing  season  ;  " 
Thus  Love  has  advised  me,  and  who  will  deny 
That  Love  reasons  much  better  than  Reason, 

Dear  Fanny  ? 
Love  reasons  much  better  than  Reason. 

Thomas  Moore. 


CCCXXXI  I. 

To  LADY  ANNE  HAMILTON. 

Too  late  I  stay'd  !  forgive  the  crime, 

Unheeded  flew  the  hours  ; 
How  noiseless  falls  the  foot  of  Time, 

That  only  treads  on  flowers  1 

What  eye  with  clear  account  remarks 

The  ebbing  of  his  glass. 
When  all  its  sands  are  di'mond    sparks, 

That  dazzle  as  they  pass  ? 

Ah  !  who  to  sober  measurement 

Time's  happy  swiftness  brings, 

When  birds  of  Paradise  have  lent 

Their  plumage  for  his  wings  ? 

Honble.  William  R.  Spencer. 


232 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

CCCXXXIII. 
THE  JUDGMENT  OF  THE  POETS. 

Two  nymphs,  both  nearly  of  an  age, 
Of  numerous  charms  possess'd, 

A  warm  dispute  once  chanced  to  wage, 
Whose  temper  was  the  best. 

The  worth  of  each  had  been  complete 

Had  both  alike  been  mild  : 
But  one,  altho'  her  smile  was  sweet, 

Frown'd  oftener  than  she  smil'd. 

And  in  her  humour,  when  she  frown'd, 
Would  raise  her  voice,  and  roar, 

And  shake  with  fury  to  the  ground 
The  garland  that  she  wore. 

The  other  was  of  gentler  cast, 

From  all  such  frenzy  clear, 
Her  frowns  were  seldom  known  to  last, 

And  never  proved  severe. 

To  poets  of  renown  in  song 
The  nymphs  referred  the  cause, 

And  strange  to  tell,  all  judg'd  it  wrong, 
And  gave  misplac'd  applause. 

They  gentle  called,  and  kind  and  soft 

The  flippant  and  the  scold, 
And  tho'  she  changed  her  mood  so  oft, 

That  failing  left  untold. 

No  judges,  sure,  were  e'er  so  mad, 

Or  so  resolved  to  err — 
In  short,  the  charms  her  sister  had 

They  lavish'd  all  on  her. 

Then  thus  the  god,  whom  fondly  they 

Their  great  inspirer  call, 
Was  heard,  one  genial  summer's  day, 

To  reprimand  them  all. 


233 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

"  Since  thus  ye  have  combined,"  he  said. 

My  fav'rite  nymph  to  slight, 
Adorning  May,  that  peevish  maid, 

With  June's  undoubted  right  ; 

The  minx  shall,  for  your  folly's  sake, 

Still  prove  herself  a  shrew, 
Shall  make  your  scribbling  fingers  ache, 

And  pinch  your  noses  blue." 

William  Ccrwper, 


cccxxxiv. 
LOVE  AND  TIME. 

'Tis  said — but  whether  true  or  not 

Let  bards  declare  who've  seen  'em — 
That  Love  and  Time  have  only  got 

One  pair  of  wings  between  'em. 
In  courtship's  first  delicious  hour, 

The  boy  full  oft  can  spare  them ; 
So,  loit'ring  in  his  lady's  bower, 

He  lets  the  greybeard  wear  them. 
Then  is  Time's  hour  of  play ; 
O,  how  he  flies,  flies  away  ! 

But  short  the  moments,  short  as  bright, 

When  he  the  wings  can  borrow  ; 
If  Time  to-day  has  had  his  flight, 

Love  takes  his  turn  to-morrow. 
Ah !  Time  and  Love,  your  change  is  then 

The  saddest  and  most  trying, 
When  one  begins  to  limp  again, 

And  t'other  takes  to  flying. 
Then  is  Love's  hour  to  stray ; 
O,  how  he  flies,  flies  away  ! 

But  there's  a  nymph,  whose  chains  I  feel, 

And  bless  the  silken  fetter, 
Who  knows,  the  dear  one,  how  to  deal 

With  Love  and  Time  much  better. 
So  well  she  checks  their  wanderings, 

So  peacefully  she  pairs  them, 


234  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

That  Love  with  her  ne'er  thinks  of  wings ; 
And  Time  for  ever  wears  them. 
This  is  Time's  holyday; 
O,  how  he  flies,  flies  away ! 

Thomas  Moore. 

cccxxxv. 
EPITAPH  UPON  THE  YEAR  1806. 

'Tis  gone,  with  its  thorns  and  its  roses, 
With  the  dust  of  dead  ages  to  mix  ; 

Time's  charnel  for  ever  encloses 
The  year  Eighteen  hundred  and  six ! 

Though  many  may  question  thy  merit, 

I  duly  thy  dirge  will  perform, 
Content,  if  thy  heir  but  inherit 

Thy  portion  of  sunshine  and  storm  I 

My  blame  and  my  blessing  thou  sharest, 
For  black  were  thy  moments  in  part, 

But  O !  thy  fair  days  were  the  fairest 
That  ever  have  shone  on  my  heart. 

If  thine  was  a  gloom  the  completest 
That  death's  darkest  cypress  could  throw, 

Thine,  too,  was  a  garland  the  sweetest 
That  life  in  full  blossom  could  show  ! 

One  hand  gave  the  balmy  corrector 
Of  ills  which  the  other  had  brew'd  ; 

One  draught  of  thy  chalice  of  nectar 
All  tastes  of  thy  bitters  subdued. 

Tis  gone,  with  its  thorns  and  its  roses ! 

With  mine  tears  more  precious  will  mix, 
To  hallow  the  midnight  which  closes, 

The  year  Eighteen  hundred  and  six. 

Honble.  William  R.  Spencer. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  23$ 

CCCXXXVI. 
MINERVA'S  THIMBLE. 

YOUNG  Jessica  sat  all  the  day, 

With  heart  o'er  idle  love-thoughts  pining  ; 
Her  needle  bright  beside  her  lay, 

So  active  once  ! — now  idly  shining. 
Ah,  Jessy,  'tis  in  idle  hearts 

That  love  and  mischief  are  most  nimble  ; 
The  safest  shield  against  the  darts 

Of  Cupid,  is  Minerva's  thimble. 

The  child,  who  with  a  magnet  plays, 

Well  knowing  all  its  arts,  so  wily, 
The  tempter  near  a  needle  lays, 

And  laughing,  says,  "  we'll  steal  it  slily." 
The  needle,  having  nought  to  do, 

Is  pleased  to  let  the  magnet  wheedle, 
Till  closer,  closer  come  the  two, 

And  off,  at  length,  elopes  the  needle. 

Now,  had  this  needle  turn'd  its  eye 

To  some  gay  reticule's  construction, 
It  ne'er  had  stray'd  from  duty's  tie, 

Nor  felt  the  magnet's  sly  seduction. 
Thus,  girls,  would  you  keep  quiet  hearts, 

Your  snowy  ringers  must  be  nimble  ; 
The  safest  shield  against  the  darts 

Of  Cupid,  is  Minerva's  thimble. 

Thomas  Moore. 


CCCXXXVII. 

ON  OBSERVING  SOME  NAMES  OF  LITTLE  NOTE  RECORDED 
IN  THE  BlOGRAPHIA  BRITANNICA. 

OH,  fond  attempt  to  give  a  deathless  lot 
To  names  ignoble,  born  to  be  forgot ! 
In  vain,  recorded  in  historic  page, 
They  court  the  notice  of  a  future  age 


236  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

These  twinkling,  tiny  lustres  of  the  land 
Drop  one  by  one  from  Fame's  neglecting  hand ; 
Lethaean  gulfs  receive  them  as  they  fall, 
And  dark  oblivion  soon  absorbs  them  all. 

So  when  a  child,  as  playful  children  use, 
Has  burn'd  to  tinder  a  stale  last  year's  news, 
The  flame  extinct,  he  views  the  roving  fire — 
There  goes  my  lady,  and  there  goes  the  squire  ! 
There  goes  the  parson,  oh,  illustrious  spark ! 
And  there,  scarce  less  illustrious,  goes  the  clerk  ! 

William  Cowfer. 

cccxxxvm. 

GOOD-BYE  AND  HOW-D'YE-DO. 

ONE  day,  Good-bye  met  How-d'ye-do, 

Too  close  to  shun  saluting, 
But  soon  the  rival  sisters  flew, 

From  kissing,  to  disputing. 

"  Away,"  says  How-d'ye-do,  "your  mien 

Appalls  my  cheerful  nature, 
No  name  so  sad  as  yours  is  seen 

In  sorrow's  nomenclature. 

"  Whene'er  I  give  one  sunshine  hour, 
Your  cloud  comes  o'er  to  shade  it  ; 

Where'er  I  plant  one  bosom  flower, 
Your  mildew  drops  to  fade  it. 

"  Ere  How-d'ye-do  has  turned  each  tongue 

To  Hope's  delightful  measure, 
Good-bye  in  Friendship's  ear  has  rung 

The  knell  of  parting  pleasure  ! 

"  From  sorrows  past,  my  chemic  skill 

Draws  smiles  of  consolation, 
While  you  from  present  joys  distil 

The  tears  of  separation." 

Good-bye  replied,  "  Your  statement's  true, 
And  well  your  cause  you've  pleaded  : 

But  pray,  who'd  think  of  Hownd'ye-do, 
Unless  Good-bye  preceded  ? 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  237 

"  Without  my  prior  influence 

Could  yours  have  ever  flourish'd  ? 
And  can  your  hand  one  flower  dispense 

But  those  my  tears  have  nourish'd  ? 

"  How  oft,  if  at  the  Court  of  Love 

Concealment  be  the  fashion, 
When  How-d'ye-do  has  failed  to  move, 

Good-bye  reveals  the  passion  ! 

'  How  oft,  when  Cupid's  fires  decline, 

As  every  heart  remembers, 
One  sigh  of  mine,  and  only  mine, 

Revives  the  dying  embers  ! 

"  Go,  bid  the  timid  lover  choose, 

And  I'll  resign  my  charter ; 
If  he,  for  ten  kind  How-d'ye-do's, 

One  kind  Good-bye  would  barter ! 

"  From  Love  and  friendship's  kindred  source 

We  both  derive  existence, 
And  they  would  both  lose  half  their  force, 

Without  our  joint  assistance. 

"  'Tis  well  the  world  our  merit  knows, 

Since  time,  there's  no  denying, 
One-half  in  How-d'ye-doing  goes, 

And  t'other  in  Good-byeing  !  " 

Honble.  William  R.  Spencer. 


CCCXXXIX. 

WHEN  Love  came  first  to  earth,  the  Spring 
Spread  rose-beds  to  receive  him, 

And  back  he  vow'd  his  flight  he'd  wing 
To  Heaven,  if  she  should  leave  him. 

But  Spring  departing,  saw  his  faith 
Pledged  to  the  next  new  comer — 

He  revell'd  in  the  warmer  breath 
And  richer  bowers  of  Summer. 


238  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

Then  sportive  Autumn  claim'd  by  rights 

An  Archer  for  her  lover, 
And  even  in  Winter's  dark  cold  nights 

A  charm  he  could  discover. 

Her  routs  and  balls,  and  fireside  joy, 
For  this  time  were  his  reasons — 

In  short,  young  love's  a  gallant  boy, 
That  likes  all  times  and  seasons. 

Thomas  Campbell. 


CCCXL. 

WHEN  the  black-letter'd  list  to  the  gods  was  presented, 
(The  list  of  what  Fate  for  each  mortal  intends) 

At  the  long  string  of  ills  a  kind  goddess  relented, 

And  slipt  in  three  blessings — wife,  children,  and  friends. 

In  vain  surly  Pluto  maintain'd  he  was  cheated, 
For  justice  divine  could  not  compass  her  ends  ; 

The  scheme  of  man's  penance  he  swore  was  defeated, 
For  earth  becomes  heaven  with  wife,  children,  and  friends. 

If  the  stock  of  our  bliss  is  in  stranger  hands  vested, 
The  fund  ill-secured  oft  in  bankruptcy  ends  ; 

But  the  heart  issues  bills  which  are  never  protested 

When  drawn  on  the  firm  of  Wife,  Children,  and  Friends. 

Though  valour  still  glows  in  his  life's  waning  embers, 
The  death-wounded  tar  who  his  colours  defends, 

Drops  a  tear  of  regret  as  he  dying  remembers 

How  blest  was  his  home  with  wife,  children,  and  friends. 

The  soldier,  whose  deeds  live  immortal  in  story, 

Whom  duty  to  far  distant  latitudes  sends, 
With  transport  would  barter  whole  ages  of  glory 

For  one  happy  day  with  wife,  children,  and  friends, 

Though  spice-breathing  gales  o'er  his  caravan  hover, 
Though  round  him  Arabia's  whole  fragrance  ascends, 

The  merchant  still  thinks  of  the  woodbines  that  cover 
The  bower  where  he  sat  with  wife,  children,  and  friends. 

The  day-spring  of  youth,  still  unclouded  by  sorrow, 

Alone  on  itself  for  enjoyment  depends  ; 
But  drear  is  the  twilight  of  age  if  it  borrow 

No  warmth  from  the  smiles  of  wife,  children,  and  friends. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 


239 


Let  the  breath  of  Renown  ever  freshen  and  cherish 
The  laurel  which  o'er  her  dead  favourite  bends, 

O'er  me  wave  the  willow  !  and  long  may  it  flourish 
Bedewed  with  the  tears  of  wife,  children,  and  friends. 

Let  us  drink — for  my  song,  growing  graver  and  graver, 

To  subjects  too  solemn  insensibly  tends  ; 
Let  us  drink — pledge  me  high — Love  and  Virtue  shall  flavour 

The  glass  which  I  fill  to  wife,  children,  and  friends. 

Honble.  William  ft.  Spencer. 


CCCXLI. 

THE  OLD  STORY  OVER  AGAIN. 

WHEN  I  was  a  maid, 

Nor  of  lovers  afraid, 
My  mother  cried,  "  Girl,  never  listen  to  men." 

Her  lectures  were  long, 

But  I  thought  her  quite  wrong, 
And  said  I,  "  Mother,  whom  should  I  listen  to,  then  ?  " 

Now  teaching,  in  turn, 

What  I  never  could  learn, 
I  find,  like  my  mother,  my  lessons  all  vain  ; 

Men  ever  deceive, — 

Silly  maidens  believe, 
And  still  'tis  the  old  story  over  again. 

So  humbly  they  woo, 

What  can  poor  maidens  do 
But  keep  them  alive  when  they  swear  they  must  die  ? 

Ah  !  who  can  forbear, 

As  they  weep  in  despair, 
Their  crocodile  tears  in  compassion  to  dry  ? 

Yet,  wedded  at  last, 

When  the  honeymoon's  past, 
The  lovers  forsake  us,  the  husbands  remain; 

Our  vanity's  check'd, 

And  we  ne'er  can  expect 
They  will  tell  us  the  old  story  over  again. 

James  Kenry. 


240  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUAf. 

CCCXLII. 

ROSE'S  BIRTHDAY. 

TELL  me,  perverse  young  year  ! 
Why  is  the  morn  so  drear  ? 

Is  there  no  flower  to  twine  ? 
Away,  thou  churl,  away  ! 
'Tis  Rose's  natal  day, 

Reserve  thy  frowns  for  mine. 

Walter  S.  Landor. 

CCCXLIII. 
THE  GIRL  OF  CADIZ. 

O,  NEVER  talk  again  to  me 

Of  northern  climes  and  British  ladies ; 
It  has  not  been  your  lot  to  see, 

Like  me,  the  lovely  girl  of  Cadiz. 
Altho'  her  eyes"  be  not  of  blue, 

Nor  fair  her  locks,  like  English  lasses', 
How  far  its  own  expressive  hue 

The  languid  azure  eye  surpasses ! 

Prometheus-like  from  Heaven  she  stole 

The  fire  that  thro'  those  silken  lashes 
In  darkest  glances  seems  to  roll, 

From  eyes  that  cannot  hide  their  flashes  ; 
And  as  along  her  bosom  steal 

In  lengthened  flow  her  raven  tresses, 
You'd  swear  each  clustering  lock  could  feel, 

And  curl'd  to  give  her  neck  caresses. 

Our  English  maids  are  long  to  woo, 

And  frigid  even  in  possession  ; 
And  if  their  charms  be  fair  to  view, 

Their  lips  are  slow  at  Love's  confession ; 
But,  born  beneath  a  brighter  sun, 

For  love  ordain'd  the  Spanish  maid  is, 
And  who, — when  fondly,  fairly  won — 

Enchants  you  like  the  girl  of  Cadiz  ? 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

The  Spanish  maid  is  no  coquette, 

Nor  joys  to  see  a  lover  tremble ; 
And  if  she  love,  or  if  she  hate, 

Alike  she  knows  not  to  dissemble. 
Her  heart  can  ne'er  be  bought  or  sold — 

Howe'er  it  beats,  it  beats  sincerely ; 
And,  tho'  it  will  not  bend  to  gold, 

'Twill  love  you  long,  and  love  you  dearly. 

The  Spanish  girl  that  meets  your  love 

Ne'er  taunts  you  with  a  mock  denial ; 
For  every  thought  is  bent  to  prove 

Her  passion  in  the  hour  of  trial. 
When  thronging  foemen  menace  Spain 

She  dares  the  deed  and  shares  the  danger; 
And  should  her  lover  press  the  plain, 

She  hurls  the  spear,  her  love's  avenger. 

And  when  beneath  the  evening  star, 

She  mingles  in  the  gay  Bolero  ; 
Or  sings  to  her  attuned  guitar 

Of  Christian  knight  or  Moorish  hero; 
Or  counts  her  beads  with  fairy  hand 

Beneath  the  twinkling  rays  of  Hesper ; 
Or  joins  devotion's  choral  band 

To  chant  the  sweet  and  hallow'd  vesper : 

In  each  her  charms  the  heart  must  move 

Of  all  who  venture  to  behold  her  : 
Then  let  not  maids  less  fair  reprove, 

Because  her  bosom  is  not  colder ; 
Thro'  many  a  clime  'tis  mine  to  roam 

Where  many  a  soft  and  melting  maid  is, 
But  none  abroad,  and  few  at  home, 

May  match  the  dark-eyed  girl  of  Cadiz. 

Lord  Byron, 
CCCXLIV. 

THE  time  I've  lost  in  wooing, 
In  watching  and  pursuing 

The  light  that  lies 

In  woman's  eyes, 
Has  been  my  heart's  undoing. 


241 


242  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

Tho'  Wisdom  oft  has  sought  me, 
I  scorn'd  the  lore  she  brought  me, 

My  only  books 

Were  woman's  looks, 
And  folly's  all  they  taught  me. 

Her  smile  when  Beauty  granted, 
I  hung  with  gaze  enchanted, 

Like  him  the  sprite 

Whom  maids  by  night 
Oft  meet  in  glen  that's  haunted. 
Like  him,  too,  Beauty  won  me ; 

If  once  their  ray 

Was  turn'd  away, 
O  !  winds  could  not  outrun  me. 

And  are  those  follies  going  ? 
And  is  my  proud  heart  growing 

Too  cold  or  wise 

For  brilliant  eyes 
Again  to  set  it  glowing  ? 
No — vain,  alas  !  th'  endeavour 
From  bonds  so  sweet  to  sever ; — 

Poor  Wisdom's  chance 

Against  a  glance 
Is  now  as  weak  as  ever. 

Thomas  Rloore. 

CCCXLV. 

THE  grateful  heart  for  all  things  blesses  ; 

Not  only  joy,  but  grief  endears  : 
I  love  you  for  your  few  caresses, 

I  love  you  for  your  many  tears. 

Walter  S.  Lander, 


LA  PROMESSA  SPOSA. 

SLEEP,  my  sweet  girl !  and  all  the  sleep 
You  take  away  from  others,  keep : 
A  night,  no  distant  one,  will  come 
When  those  you  took  your  slumbers  from, 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

Generous — ungenerous — will  confess 
Their  joy  that  you  have  slumber'd  less, 
And  envy  more  than  they  condemn 
The  rival  who  avenges  them. 

Walter  S.  Landor, 

CCCXLVI  I. 

O,  say  not  that  my  heart  is  cold 

To  aught  that  once  could  warm  it  ; 
That  Nature's  form,  so  dear  of  old, 

No  more  has  power  to  charm  it  ; 
Or  that  the  ungenerous  world  can  chill 

One  glow  of  fond  emotion 
For  those  who  made  it  dearer  still, 

And  shared  my  wild  devotion. 

Still  oft  those  solemn  scenes  I  view 

In  rapt  and  dreamy  sadness  ; 
Oft  look  on  those  who  loved  them  too 

With  Fancy's  idle  gladness  ; 
Again  I  long'd  to  view  the  light 

In  Nature's  features  glowing, 
Again  to  tread  the  mountain's  height, 

And  taste  the  soul's  o'erflowing. 

Stern  Duty  rose,  and  frowning  flung 

His  leaden  chain  around  me  ; 
With  iron  look  and  sullen  tongue 

He  mutter'd  as  he  bound  me ; 
"  The  mountain  breeze,  the  boundless  heaven, 

Unfit  for  toil  the  creature; 
These  for  the  free  alone  are  given — 

But  what  have  slaves  with  Nature  ?" 

Rev.  Charles  Wolfe. 

CCCXLVI  1 1. 

SYMPATHY  IN  SORROW. 

THE  maid  I  love  ne'er  thought  of  me 
Amid  the  scenes  of  gaiety  ; 
But  when  her  heart  or  mine  sank  low, 
Ah,  then  it  was  no  longer  so. 


243 


244  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

From  the  slant  palm  she  raised  her  head, 
And  kiss'd  the  cheek  whence  youth  had  fle 
Angels  !  some  future  day  for  this, 
Give  her  as  sweet  and  pure  a  kiss. 

Walter  S.  Landor. 


To  MR.  HODGSON. 
From  on  board  the  Lisbon  Packet. 

HUZZA  !  Hodgson,  we  are  going, 

Our  embargo's  off  at  last ; 
Favourable  breezes  blowing 

Bend  the  canvas  o'er  the  mast. 
From  aloft  the  signal's  streaming, 
Hark !  the  farewell  gun  is  fir'd  ; 
Sailors  swearing,  women  screaming, 
Tell  us  that  our  time's  expir'd. 
Here's  a  rascal 
Come  to  task  all, 
Prying  from  the  Custom-house  ; 
Trunks  unpacking, 
Cases  cracking  : 
Not  a  corner  for  a  mouse 
'Scapes  unsearch'd  amid  the  racket, 
Ere  we  sail  on  board  the  Packet. 

Now  our  boatmen  quit  their  mooring, 

And  all  hands  must  ply  the  oar  ; 
Baggage  from  the  quay  is  lowering, 

We're  impatient — push  from  shore. 
"  Have  a  care  !  that  case  holds  liquor — 

Stop  the  boat — I'm  sick — O  lord  !  " 
"  Sick,  ma'am,  hang  it,  you'll  be  sicker 
Ere  you've  been  an  hour  on  board.". 
Thus  are  screaming 
Men  and  women, 
Gemmen,  ladies,  servants,  Jacks ; 
Here  entangling, 
All  are  wrangling, 
Stuck  together  close  as  wax, — 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  245 

Such  the  general  noise  and  racket, 
Ere  we  reach  the  Lisbon  Packet. 

Now  we've  reach'd  her,  lo  !  the  Captain, 

Gallant  Kidd  commands  the  crew; 
Passengers  their  berths  are  clapt  in, 
Some  to  grumble — some  to  spew. 
"  Heyday  !  call  you  that  a  cabin  ? 

Why  'tis  hardly  three  feet  square ; 
Not  enough  to  stow  Queen  Mab  in — 
Who  the  deuce  can  harbour  there  ?  " 
"  Who,  sir  ? — plenty — 
Nobles  twenty 
Did  at  once  my  vessel  fill." 
"  Did  they  ?    Bacchus, 
How  you  pack  us  1 
Would  to  Heaven  they  did  so  still  : 
Then  I'd  'scape  the  heat  and  racket 
Of  the  good  ship,  Lisbon  Packet." 

Fletcher  !  Murray  !  Bob  !  where  are  you  ? 

Stretch'd  along  the  deck  like  logs — 
Bear  a  hand  you  jolly  tar,  you ! 

Here's  a  rope's-end  for  the  dogs. 
Hobhouse,  muttering  fearful  curses 

As  the  hatchway  down  he  rolls, 
Now  his  breakfast,  now  his  verses, 
Vomits  forth — and  d — s  our  souls. 
"  Here's  a  stanza 
On  Braganza — 

Help  !  "— "  A  couplet  ?  "— "  No,  a  cup 
Of  warm  water  " — 
"  What's  the  matter  ?  " 
"  Zounds,  my  liver's  coming  up  ; 
I  shall  not  survive  the  racket 
Of  this  brutal  Lisbon  Packet." 

Now  at  length  we're  off  for  Turkey, 

Lord  knows  when  we  shall  come  back  ! 
Breezes  foul  and  tempests  murky 

May  unship  us  in  a  crack. 
But,  since  life  at  most  a  jest  is, 

As  philosophers  allow, 
Still  to  laugh  by  far  the  best  is, 

Then  laugh  on — as  I  do  now. 


246  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

Laugh  at  all  things, 
Great  and  small  things, 
Sick  or  well,  at  sea  or  shore ; 
While  we're  quaffing, 
Let's  have  laughing — 
Who  the  devil  cares  for  more  ? 
Some  good  wine  !  and  who  would  lack  it, 
Even  on  board  the  Lisbon  Packet  ? 

Lord  Byron. 


CCCL. 

KITTY  OF  COLERAINE. 

As  beautiful  Kitty  one  morning  was  tripping, 

With  a  pitcher  of  milk  from  the  fair  of  Coleraine, 

When  she  saw  me  she  stumbled,  the  pitcher  it  tumbled, 
And  all  the  sweet  butter-milk  water'd  the  plain. 

O,  what  shall  I  do  now,  'twas  looking  at  you  now, 
Sure,  sure,  such  a  pitcher  I'll  ne'er  meet  again, 

'Twas  the  pride  of  my  dairy,  O,  Barney  M'Leary, 
You're  sent  as  a  plague  to  the  girls  of  Coleraine. 

I  sat  down  beside  her, — and  gently  did  chide  her, 
That  such  a  misfortune  should  give  her  such  pain, 

A  kiss  then  I  gave  her, — before  I  did  leave  her, 
She  vow'd  for  such  pleasure  she'd  break  it  again. 

'Twas  hay-making  season,  I  can't  tell  the  reason, 
Misfortunes  will  never  come  single, — that's  plain, 

For,  very  soon  after  poor  Kitty's  disaster, 
The  devil  a  pitcher  was  whole  in  Coleraine. 

Unknown. 
CCCLI. 

THE  CONTRAST. 

IN  London  I  never  know  what  I'd  be  at, 
Enraptured  with  this,  and  enchanted  with  that  ; 
I'm  wild  with  the  sweets  of  variety's  plan, 
And  Life  seems  a  blessing  too  happy  for  man. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 


247 


But  the  Country,  Lord  help  me  !  sets  all  matters  right, 
So  calm  and  composing  from  morning  to  night ; 
Oh  !  it  settles  the  spirits  when  nothing  is  seen 
But  an  ass  on  a  common,  a  goose  on  a  green. 

In  town  if  it  rain,  why  it  damps  not  our  hope, 
The  eye  has  her  choice,  and  the  fancy  her  scope ; 
What  harm  though  it  pour  whole  nights  or  whole  days? 
It  spoils  not  our  prospects,  or  stops  not  our  ways. 

In  the  country  what  bliss,  when  it  rains  in  the  fields, 
To  live  on  the  transports  that  shuttlecock  yields  ; 
Or  go  crawling  from  window  to  window,  to  see 
A  pig  on  a  dunghill,  or  crow  on  a  tree. 

In  London,  if  folks  ill  together  are  put, 
A  bore  may  be  dropt.  and  a  quiz  may  be  cut; 
\Ve  change  without  end;  and  if  lazy  or  ill, 
All  wants  are  at  hand,  and  all  wishes  at  will. 

In  the  country  you're  nail'd  like  a  pale  in  the  park, 
To  some  stick  of  a  neighbour  that's  cramm'd  in  the  ark ; 
And  'tis  odds,  if  you're  hurt,  or  in  fits  tumble  down, 
You  reach  death  ere  the  doctor  can  reach  you  from  town. 

In  London  how  easy  we  visit  and  meet, 
Gay  pleasure's  the  theme,  and  sweet  smiles  are  our  treat  : 
Our  morning's  a  round  of  good-humour'd  delight, 
And  we  rattle,  in  comfort,  to  pleasure  at  night. 

In  the  country,  how  sprightly  ?  our  visits  we  make 
Through  ten  miles  of  mud,  for  Formality's  sake  ; 
With  the  coachman  in  drink,  and  the  moon  in  a  fog, 
And  no  thought  in  our  head  but  a  ditch  or  a  bog. 

In  London  the  spirits  are  cheerful  and  light, 
All  places  are  gay  and  all  faces  are  bright ; 
We've  ever  new  joys,  and  reviv'd  by  each  whim, 
Each  day  on  a  fresh  tide  of  pleasure  we  swim. 

But  how  gay  is  the  country !  what  summer  delight 
To  be  waiting  for  winter  from  morning  to  night! 
Then  the  fret  of  impatience  gives  exquisite  glee 
To  relish  the  sweet  rural  subjects  we  see. 


248  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

In  town  we've  no  use  for  the  skies  overhead, 
For  when  the  sun  rises  then  we  go  to  bed  ; 
And  as  to  that  old-fashion'd  virgin  the  moon, 
She  shines  out  of  season,  like  satin  in  June. 

In  the  country  these  planets  delightfully  glare 
Just  to  show  us  the  object  we  want  isn't  there; 
O,  how  cheering  and  gay,  when  their  beauties  arise, 
To  sit  and  gaze  round  with  the  tears  in  one's  eyes  ! 

But  'tis  in  the  country  alone  we  can  find 
That  happy  resource,  that  relief  of  the  mind, 
When,  drove  to  despair,  our  last  effort  we  make, 
And  drag  the  old  fishpond,  for  novelty's  sake  : 

Indeed  I  must  own,  'tis  a  pleasure  complete 

To  see  ladies  well  draggled  and  wet  in  their  feet ; 

But  what  is  all  that  to  that  transport  we  feel 

When  we  capture,  in  triumph,  two  toads  and  an  eel? 

I  have  heard  tho',  that  love  in  a  cottage  is  sweet. 
When  two  hearts  in  one  link  of  soft  sympathy  meet: 
That's  to  come — for  as  yet  I,  alas  !  am  a  swain 
Who  require,  I  own  it,  more  links  to  my  chain. 

Your  magpies  and  stock-doves  may  flirt  among  trees, 
And  chatter  their  transports  in  groves,  if  they  please: 
But  a  house  is  much  more  to  my  taste  than  a  tree, 
And  for  groves,  O  !  a  good  grove  of  chimneys  for  me. 

In  the  country,  if  Cupid  should  find  a  man  out, 
The  poor  tortur'd  victim  mopes  hopeless  about ; 
But  in  London,  thank  Heaven  !  our  peace  is  secure, 
Where  for  one  eye  to  kill,  there's  a  thousand  to  cure. 

I  know  love's  a  devil,  too  subtle  to  spy, 

That  shoots  through  the  soul,  from  the  beam  of  an  eye ; 

But  in  London  these  devils  so  quick  fly  about, 

That  a  new  devil  still  drives  an  old  devil  out. 

In  town  let  me  live  then,  in  town  let  me  die, 
For  in  truth  I  can't  relish  the  country,  not  I. 
If  one  must  have  a  villa  in  summer  to  dwell, 
O,  give  me  the  sweet  shady  side  of  Pall  Mall ! 

Captain  Charles  Morris. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 
CCCLII. 

CHRISTMAS  OUT  OF  TOWN. 

FOR  many  a  winter  in  Billiter  Lane, 

My  wife,  Mrs.  Brown,  was  not  heard  to  complain ; 

At  Christmas  the  family  met  there  to  dine 

On  beef  and  plum-pudding,  and  turkey  and  chine. 

Our  bark  has  now  taken  a  contrary  heel, 

My  wife  has  found  out  that  the  sea  is  genteel. 

To  Brighton  we  duly  go  scampering  down, 

For  nobody  now  spends  his  Christmas  in  Town. 

Our  register-stoves,  and  our  crimson-baized  doors, 
Our  weather-proof  walls,  and  our  carpeted  floors, 
Our  casements  well  fitted  to  stem  the  north  wind, 
Our  armchair  and  sofa,  are  all  left  behind. 
We  lodge  on  the  Steyne,  in  a  bow-window'd  box, 
That  beckons  up-stairs  every  Zephyr  that  knocks; 
The  sun  hides  his  head,  and  the  elements  frown, — 
But  nobody  now  spends  his  Chrismas  in  Town. 

In  Billiter  Lane,  at  this  mirth-moving  time, 

The  lamp-lighter  brought  us  his  annual  rhyme, 

The  tricks  of  Grimaldi  were  sure  to  be  seen, 

We  carved   a  twelfth-cake,  and  we  drew  king  and  queen  : 

These  pastimes  gave  oil  to  Time's  round-about  wheel, 

Before  we  began  to  be  growing  genteel ; 

'Twas  all  very  well  for  a  cockney  or  clown, 

But  nobody  now  spends  his  Christmas  in  Town. 

At  Brighton  I'm  stuck  up  in  Donaldson's  shop, 
Or  walk  upon  bricks  till  I'm  ready  to  drop  ; 
Throw  stones  at  an  anchor,  look  out  for  a  skiff, 
Or  view  the  Chain-pier  from  the  top  of  the  Cliff: 
Till  winds  from  all  quarters  oblige  me  to  halt, 
With  an  eye  full  of  sand,  and  a  mouth  full  of  salt, 
Yet  still  I  am  suffering  with  folks  of  renown, 
For  nobody  now  spends  his  Christmas  in  Town. 

In  gallop  the  winds,  at  the  full  of  the  moon, 
And  puff  up  the  carpet  like  Sadler's  balloon ; 
My  drawing-room  rug  is  besprinkled  with  soot, 
And  there  is  not  a  lock  in  the  house  that  will  shut. 


249 


25° 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 


At  Mahomet's  steam-bath  I  lean  on  my  cane, 
And  murmur  in  secret, — "  Oh,  Billiter-lane  !  " 
But  would  not  express  what  I  think  for  a  crown, 
For  nobody  now  spends  his  Christmas  in  Town. 

The  Duke  and  the  Earl  are  no  cronies  of  mine, 
His  Majesty  never  invites  me  to  dine  ; 
The  Marquis  won't  speak  when  we  meet  on  the  pier, 
Which  makes  me  supsect  that  I'm  nobody  here. 
If  that  be  the  case,  why  then  welcome  again 
Twelfth-cake  and  snapdragon  in  Billiter-lane. 
Next  winter  I'll  prove  to  my  dear  Mrs.  Brown, 
That  Nobody  now  spends  his  Christmas  in  Town. 

James  Smith. 


LINES   LEFT  AT   MR.   THEODORE   HOOK'S   HOUSE    IN 
JUNE,  1834. 

As  Dick  and  I 

Were  a-sailing  by 
At  Fulham  bridge,  I  cock'd  my  eye, 

And  says  I,  "Add-zooksl 

There's  Theodore  Hook's, 
Whose  Sayings  and  Doings  make  such  pretty  books. 

"  I  wonder,"  says  I, 

Still  keeping  my  eye 
On  the  house,  "  if  he's  in — I  should  like  to  try ;  " 

With  his  oar  on  his  knee, 

Says  Dick,  says  he, 
"  Father,  suppose  you  land  and  see  1 " 

"What  land  and  sea" 

Says  I  to  he. 
"  Together  !  why,  Dick,  why  how  can  that  be  ?  " 

And  my  comical  son, 

Who  is  fond  of  fun, 
I  thought  would  have  split  his  sides  at  the  pun. 

So  we  rows  to  shore, 
And  knocks  at  the  door — 
When  William,  a  man  I've  seen  often  before, 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  2$l 

Makes  answer  and  says, 
"  Master's  gone  in  a  chaise 
Call'd  a  homnibus,  drawn  by  a  couple  of  bays." 

So  I  says  then, 

"  Just  lend  me  a  pen  :  " 

"  I  will,  sir,"  says  William,  politest  of  men  ; 
So  having  no  card,  these  poetical  brayings, 
Are  the  record  I  leave  of  my  doings  and  sayings, 
Richard  H,  Bar  ham. 

CCCLIV. 

MOTHER,  I  cannot  mind  my  wheel  ; 

My  fingers  ache,  my  lips  are  dry  : 
O,  if  you  felt  the  pain  I  feel ! 

But  O,  who  ever  felt  as  I ! 
No  longer  could  I  doubt  him  true, 

All  other  men  may  use  deceit ; 
He  always  said  my  eyes  were  blue, 

And  often  swore  my  lips  were  sweet. 

Walter  S.  Landor. 

CCCLV. 

JENNY  KISS'D  ME. 

JENNY  kiss'd  me  when  we  met, 

Jumping  from  the  chair  she  sat  in  ; 
Time,  you  thief  !  who  love  to  get 

Sweets  into  your  list,  put  that  in. 
Say  I'm  weary,  say  I'm  sad; 

Say  that  health  and  wealth  have  miss'd  me ; 
Say  I'm  growing  old,  but  add — 

Jenny  kissed  me ! 
Leigh  Hunt. 

CCCLVI. 

THE  HONEYMOON. 

SERENE  and  tranquil  was  the  night, 
The  night  that  closed  the  summer  day, 

And  brilliant  was  the  moon  and  bright 
And  soft  and  tender  was  her  ray. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

— How  like  our  loves,  the  husband  cried, 

As  on  his  arm  Louisa  hung ; 
Louisa  was  but  just  a  bride, 

And  both  were  fond  and  both  were  young. 

— This  moon  how  like  our  love,  my  dear, 
He  said,  and  clasp'd  her  round  the  waist, 

'Tis  pure  and  perfect  and  sincere, 
Tender  and  true  and  warm  and  chaste. 

Time  flew — the  youthful  pair  again 

Enjoyed  at  eve  the  stilly  vale, 
The  moon  still  shone,  but  in  her  wane, 

Her  form  less  round,  her  face  more  pale. 

— This  too  is  like  our  love — my  queen, 
For  tho'  less  radiant  and  less  bright, 

Yet  still  o'er  all  this  sylvan  scene 
She  sheds  a  mild  and  pleasing  light. 

Louisa  gently  bow'd  her  head, 

And  yet  a  sigh  escap'd  her  breast, 
Perhaps  the  fair  one  would  have  said, 
She  liked  the  first  bright  moon  the  best. 

Unknown. 
CCCLVII. 

LESBIA  ON  HER  SPARROW. 

TELL  me  not  of  joy  :  there's  none 
Now  my  little  sparrow's  gone; 
He,  just  as  you 
Would  toy  and  woo, 
He  would  chirp  and  flatter  me, 
He  would  hang  the  wing  awhile, 
Till  at  length  he  saw  me  smile, 
Lord,  how  sullen  he  would  be ! 

He  would  catch  a  crumb,  and  then 
Sporting  let  it  go  again, 
He  from  my  lip 
Would  moisture  sip, 
He  would  from  my  trencher  feed, 
Then  would  hop,  and  then  would  run, 
And  cry  "  Philip  "  when  h'  had  done, 
O  whose  heart  can  choose  but  bleed  ? 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 


253 


O,  how  eager  would  he  fight ! 
And  ne'er  hurt  tho'  he  did  bite  : 
No  morn  did  pass 
But  on  my  glass 
He  would  sit,  and  mark,  and  do 
What  I  did  ;  now  ruffle  all 
His  feathers  o'er,  now  let'em  fall, 
And  then  straightway  sleek'em  too. 

Whence  will  Cupid  get  his  darts 
Feather'd  now  to  pierce  our  hearts  ? 
A  wound  he  may, 
Not  love  convey, 
Now  this  faithful  bird  is  gone. 
O  let  mournful  turtles  join 
With  loving  redbreasts,  and  combine 
To  sing  dirges  o'er  his  stone. 

William  Cartwright. 


CCCLVIII. 
ON  THE  DEATH  OF  MATZEL,  A  FAVOURITE  BULLFINCH. 

TRY  not,  my  Stanhope,  'tis  in  vain, 
To  stop  your  tears,  to  hide  your  pain, 

Or  check  your  honest  rage  ; 
Give  sorrow  and  revenge  their  scope, 
My  present  joy  your  future  hope, 

Lies  murder'd  in  his  cage. 

Matzel's  no  more  !  ye  Graces,  Loves, 
Ye  linnets,  nightingales,  and  doves, 

Attend  th'  untimely  bier  ; 
Let  every  sorrow  be  express'd, 
Beat  with  your  wings  each  mournful  breast, 

And  drop  the  nat'ral  tear. 

For  thee,  my  bird,  the  sacred  Nine, 
Who  loved  thy  tuneful  notes,  shall  join 

In  thy  funereal  verse  ; 
My  painful  task  shall  be  to  write 
Th'  eternal  dirge  which  they  indite, 

And  hang  it  on  thy  hearse. 


254  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

In  height  of  song,  in  beauty's  pride, 
By  fell  Grimalkin's  claws  he  died — 

But  vengeance  shall  have  way. 
On  pains  and  tortures  I'll  refine  ; 
Yet,  Matzel,  that  one  death  of  thine 

His  nine  will  ill  repay. 

In  vain  I  loved,  in  vain  I  mourn 
My  bird,  who  never  to  return, 

Is  fled  to  happier  shades 
Where  Lesbia  shall  for  him  prepare 
The  place  most  charming  and  most  fair 

Of  all  the  Elysian  glades. 

There  shall  thy  notes  in  cypress  grove 
Soothe  wretched  ghosts  that  died  for  love ; 

There  shall  thy  plaintive  strain 
Lull  impious  Phaedra's  endless  grief, 
To  Procris  yield  some  short  relief, 

And  soften  Dido's  pain. 

Till  Proserpine  by  chance  shall  hear 
Thy  notes,  and  make  thee  all  her  care, 

And  love  thee  with  my  love  ; 
While  each  attendant's  soul  shall  praise 
The  matchless  Matzel's  tuneful  lays, 

And  all  his  songs  approve. 

Sir  Charles  H.  Williams. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  FAVOURITE  CAT,  DROWNED  IN  A  TUB 
OF  GOLD  FISHES. 

'TWAS  on  a  lofty  vase's  side, 
Where  China's  gayest  art  had  dyed 

The  azure  flowers  that  blow  ; 
Demurest  of  the  tabby  kind, 
The  pensive  Selima,  reclined, 

Gazed  on  the  lake  below. 

Her  conscious  tail  her  joy  declared  : 
The  fair  round  face,  the  snowy  beard, 
The  velvet  of  her  paws, 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

Her  coat  that  with  the  tortoise  vies, 

Her  ears  of  jet,  and  emerald  eyes — 

She  saw  ;  and  purr'd  applause. 

Still  had  she  gazed  ;  but  midst  the  tide 
Two  angel  forms  were  seen  to  glide, 

The  genii  of  the  stream  : 
Their  scaly  armour's  Tyrian  hue 
Through  richest  purple  to  the  view 

Betray'd  a  golden  gleam. 

The  hapless  nymph  with  wonder  saw  : 
A  whisker  first,  and  then  a  claw, 

With  many  an  ardent  wish, 
She  stretch'd,  in  vain,  to  reach  the  prize, 
What  female  heart  can  gold  despise  ? 

What  cat's  averse  to  fish  ? 

Presumptuous  maid  !  with  looks  intent 
Again  she  stretch'd,  again  she  bent, 

Nor  knew  the  gulf  between. 
(Malignant  Fate  sat  by,  and  smiled-) 
The  slippery  verge  her  feet  beguiled, 

She  tumbled  headlong  in. 

Eight  times  emerging  from  the  flood 
She  mew'd  to  every  watery  god, 

Some  speedy  aid  to  send. 
No  Dolphin  came,  no  Nereid  stirr'd: 
Nor  cruel  Tom,  nor  Susan  heard — 

A  favourite  has  no  friend ! 

From  hence  ye  beauties  undeceived, 
Know,  one  false  step  is  ne'er  retrieved, 

And  be  with  caution  bold  : 
Not  all  that  tempts  your  wandering  eyes 
And  heedless  hearts  is  lawful  prize, 

Nor  all,  that  glisters,  gold. 

Thomas  Gray. 


255 


256  LYRA  ELEGANTIARVM. 

CCCLX. 

ON  A  GOLDFINCH  STARVED  TO  DEATH  IN  HIS  CAGE. 

TIME  was  when  I  was  free  as  air, 
The  thistle's  downy  seed  my  fare, 

My  drink  the  morning  dew ; 
I  perch'd  at  will  on  every  spray, 
My  form  genteel,  my  plumage  gay, 

My  strains  for  ever  new. 

But  gaudy  plumage,  sprightly  strain, 
And  form  genteel,  were  all  in  vain, 

And  of  a  transient  date ; 
For  caught,  and  caged,  and  starved  to  death, 
In  dying  sighs  my  little  breath 

Soon  pass'd  the  wiry  grate. 

Thanks,  gentle  swain,  for  all  my  woes, 
And  thanks  for  this  effectual  close 

And  cure  of  every  ill ! 
More  cruelty  could  none  express ; 
And  I,  if  you  had  shown  me  less, 

Had  been  your  prisoner  still. 

William  Cowfer. 

CCCLXI. 

THE  FAITHFUL  BIRD. 

THE  greenhouse  is  my  summer  seat ; 
My  shrubs  displaced  from  that  retreat 

Enjoy'd  the  open  air  ; 
Two  goldfinches,  whose  sprightly  song 
Had  been  their  mutual  solace  long, 

Lived  happy  prisoners  there. 

They  sang  as  blithe  as  finches  sing, 
That  nutter  loose  on  golden  wing, 

And  frolic  where  they  list; 
Strangers  to  liberty,  'tis  true, 
But  that  delight  they  never  knew, 

And  therefore  never  miss'd. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

But  nature  works  in  every  breast, 
Instinct  is  never  quite  suppress'd  ; 

And  Dick  felt  some  desires, 
Which,  after  many  an  effort  vain, 
Instructed  him  at  length  to  gain 

A  pass  between  his  wires. 

The  open  windows  seem'd  t'  invite 
The  freeman  to  a  farewell  flight; 

But  Tom  was  still  confined; 
And  Dick,  although  his  way  was  clear, 
Was  much  too  generous  and  sincere, 

To  leave  his  friend  behind. 

For,  settling  on  his  grated  roof, 

He  chirp'd  and  kiss'd  him,  giving  proof 

That  he  desired  no  more; 
Nor  would  forsake  his  cage  at  last 
Till  gently  seized  I  shut  him  fast, 

A  prisoner  as  before. 

O  ye,  who  never  knew  the  joys 
Of  Friendship,  satisfied  with  noise, 

Fandango,  ball,  and  rout ! 
Blush,  when  I  tell  you  how  a  bird, 
A  prison  with  a  friend  preferr'd 

To  liberty  without. 

William  Cowper. 

CCCLXII. 
EPITAPH  ON  A  HARE. 

HERE  lies,  whom  hound  did  ne'er  pursue, 
Nor  swifter  greyhound  follow, 

Whose  foot  ne'er  tainted  morning  dew, 
Nor  ear  heard  huntsman's  halloo. 

Old  Tiney,  surliest  of  his  kind, 
Who,  nurs'd  with  tender  care, 

And  to  domestic  bounds  confined, 
Was  still  a  wild  Jack-hare. 

Though  duly  from  my  hand  he  took 

His  pittance  every  night, 
He  did  it  with  a  jealous  look, 

And,  when  he  could,  would  bite. 


257 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

His  diet  was  of  wheaten  bread, 
And  milk,  and  oats,  and  straw; 

Thistles,  or  lettuces  instead, 
With  sand  to  scour  his  maw. 

On  twigs  of  hawthorn  he  regal'd, 

On  pippins'  russet  peel, 
And  when  his  juicy  salads  fail'd, 

Slic'd  carrot  pleas'd  him  well. 

A  Turkey  carpet  was  his  lawn, 

Whereon  he  lov'd  to  bound, 
To  skip  and  gambol  like  a  fawn, 

And  swing  his  rump  around. 

His  frisking  was  at  evening  hours, 

For  then  he  lost  his  fear, 
But  most  before  approaching  showers, 

Or  when  a  storm  drew  near. 

Eight  years  and  five  round-rolling  moons 

He  thus  saw  steal  away, 
Dozing  out  all  his  idle  noons, 

And  every  night  at  play. 

I  kept  him  for  his  humour's  sake, 

For  he  would  oft  beguile 
My  heart  of  thoughts  that  made  it  ache, 

And  force  me  to  a  smile. 

But  now  beneath  his  walnut  shade 

He  finds  his  long  last  home, 
And  waits,  in  snug  concealment  laid, 

Till  gentler  Puss  shall  come. 

He,  still  more  aged,  feels  the  shocks, 
From  which  no  care  can  save, 

And,  partner  once  of  Tiney's  box, 
Must  soon  partake  his  grave. 

William  Ccrwper. 


LYRA  ELEGANT/ARUM.  259 

CCCLXIII. 

To  A  KITTEN. 

WANTON  droll,  whose  harmless  play 

Beguiles  the  rustics'  closing  day, 

When,  drawn  the  evening  fire  about, 

Sit  aged  crone  and  thoughtless  lout, 

And  child  upon  his  three-foot  stool, 

Waiting  till  his  supper  cool  ; 

And  maid,  whose  cheek  outblooms  the  rose 

As  bright  the  blazing  faggot  glows, 

Who,  bending  to  the  friendly  light, 

Plies  her  task  with  busy  sleight  ; 

Come,  show  thy  tricks  and  sportive  graces, 

Thus  circled  round  with  merry  faces. 

Backward  coil'd  and  crouching  low, 
With  glaring  eyeballs  watch  thy  foe, — 
The  housewife's  spindle  whirling  round, 
Or  thread  or  straw,  that  on  the  ground 
Its  shadow  throws,  by  urchin  sly 
Held  out  to  lure  thy  roving  eye  ; 
Then  onward  stealing,  fiercely  spring 
Upon  the  futile  faithless  thing. 
Now,  wheeling  round  with  bootless  skill, 
Thy  bo;.peep  tail  provokes  thee  still, 
As  oft  beyond  thy  curving  side 
Its  jetty  tip  is  seen  to  glide; 
And  see  ! — the  start,  the  jet,  the  bound, 
The  giddy  scamper  round  and  round, 
With  leap  and  toss  and  high  curvet, 
And  many  a  whirling  somerset. 

The  featest  tumbler,  stage  bedight, 
To  thee  is  but  a  clumsy  wight, 
Who  every  limb  and  sinew  strains 
To  do  what  costs  thee  little  pains  ; 
For  which,  I  trow,  the  gaping  crowd 
Requite  him  oft  with  praises  loud. 
But,  stopp'd  awhile  thy  wanton  play, 
Applauses  too  thy  pains  repay ; 
For  now,  beneath  some  urchin's  hand 
With  modest  pride  thou  tak'st  thy  stand, 


2bO  LYRA  ELEGANT1ARUM. 

While  many  a  stroke  of  kindness  glides 
Along  thy  back  and  tabby  sides. 
Dilated  swells  thy  glossy  fur 
And  loudly  sings  thy  busy  purr 
As,  timing  well  the  equal  sound, 
Thy  clutching  feet  bepat  the  ground, 
And  all  their  harmless  claws  disclose, 
Like  prickles  of  an  early  rose ; 
While  softly  from  thy  whiskered  cheek 
Thy  half-closed  eyes  peer  mild  and  meek. 

But  not  alone  by  cottage  fire 
Do  rustics  rude  thy  feats  admire. 
Even  he,  whose  mood  of  gloomy  ben 
In  lonely  tower  or  prison  pent, 
Reviews  the  coil  of  former  days, 
And  loathes  the  world  and  all  its  ways, 
What  time  the  lamp's  unsteady  gleam 
Hath  roused  him  from  his  moody  dream, 
Feels,  as  thou  gambol'st  round  his  seat, 
His  heart  of  pride  less  fiercely  beat, 
And  smiles,  a  link  in  thee  to  find, 
That  joins  it  still  to  living  kind. 

Whence  hast  thou,  then,  thou  witless  puss  ! 

The  magic  power  to  charm  us  thus  ? 

Is  it  that  in  thy  glaring  eye 

And  rapid  movements,  we  descry — 

Whilst  we  at  ease,  secure  from  ill, 

The  chimney  corner  snugly  fill, — 

A  lion  darting  on  its  prey, 

A  tiger  at  his  ruthless  play  ? 

Or  is  it  that  in  thee  we  trace 

With  all  thy  varied  wanton  grace, 

An  emblem,  view'd  with  kindred  eye, 

Of  tricksy,  restless  infancy  ? 

Ah  !  many  a  lightly  sportive  child, 

Who  hath  like  thee  our  wits  beguiled. 

To  dull  and  sober  manhood  grown, 

With  strange  recoil  our  hearts  disown. 

And  so,  poor  kit !  must  thou  endure, 
When  thou  becom'st  a  cat  demure, 
Full  many  a  cuff  and  angry  word, 
Chas'd  roughly  from  the  tempting  board. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  261 

But  yet,  for  that  thou  hast,  I  ween, 

So  oft  our  favour'd  playmate  been, 

Soft  be  the  change  which  thou  shalt  prove, 

When  time  hath  spoil'd  thee  of  our  love. 

Still  be  thou  deem'd  by  housewife  fat 

A  comelv,  careful,  mousing  cat, 

Whose  dish  is,  for  the  public  good, 

Replenished  oft  with  savoury  food. 

Nor,  when  thy  span  of  life  is  past, 

Be  thou  to  pond  or  dung-hill  cast, 

But  gently  borne  on  good  man's  spade, 

Beneath  the  decent  sod  be  laid; 

And  children  show  with  glistening  eyes 

The  place  where  poor  old  pussy  lies. 

Joanna  Baillie. 

CCCLXIV. 

EPITAPH  ON  A   ROBIN-REDBREAST. 

TREAD  lightly  here,  for  here,  'tis  said, 
Wrhen  piping  winds  are  hush'd  around, 
A  small  note  wakes  from  underground, 

Where  now  his  tiny  bones  are  laid. 

No  more  in  lone  and  leafless  groves, 
With  ruffled  wing  and  faded  breast, 

His  friendless,  homeless  spirit  roves  ; 
— Gone  to  the  world  where  birds  are  blest ! 

Where  never  cat  glides  o'er  the  green, 

Or  schoolboy's  giant  form  is  seen  ; 

But  Love,  and  Joy,  and  smiling  Spring 

Inspire  their  little  souls  to  sing  ! 

Samuel  Rogers. 

CCCLXV. 

THE  COLUBRIAD. 

CLOSE  by  the  threshold  of  a  door  nail'd  fast 

Three  kittens  sat ;  each  kitten  looked  aghast. 

I,  passing  swift  and  inattentive  by, 

At  the  three  kittens  cast  a  careless  eye  ; 

Not  much  concerned  to  know  what  they  did  there; 

Not  deeming  kittens  worth  a  poet's  care. 


262  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

But  presently  a  loud  and  furious  hiss 

Caus'd  me  to  stop,  and  to  exclaim,  "  What's  this 

When  lo !  upon  the  threshold  met  my  view, 

With  head  erect,  and  eyes  of  fiery  hue, 

A  viper,  long  as  Count  de  Grasse's  queue. 

Forth  from  his  head  his  forked  tongue  he  throws, 

Darting  it  full  against  a  kitten's  nose  ; 

Who,  never  having  seen,  in  field  or  house, 

The  like,  sat  still  and  silent  as  a  mouse  ; 

Only  projecting,  with  attention  due, 

Her  whisker'd  face,  she  asked  him,  "  Who  are  you  ?  " 

On  to  the  hall  went  I,  with  pace  not  slow, 

But  swift  as  lightning,  for  a  long  Dutch  hoe : 

With  which  well  arm'd  I  hasten'd  to  the  spot, 

To  find  the  viper,  but  I  found  him  not. 

And,  turning  up  the  leaves  and  shrubs  around, 

Found  only  that  he  was  not  to  be  found. 

But  still  the  kittens,  sitting  as  before, 

Sat  watching  close  the  bottom  of  the  door. 

'*  I  hope,"  said  I,  "the  villain  I  would  kill 

Has  slipt  between  the  door  and  door-sill ; 

And  if  I  make  despatch,  and  follow  hard, 

No  doubt  but  I  shall  find  him  in  the  yard: " 

For  long  ere  now  it  should  have  been  rehears'd, 

'Twas  in  the  garden  that  I  found  him  first. 

E'en  there  I  found  him,  there  the  full-grown  cat 

His  head,  with  velvet  paw,  did  gently  pat ; 

As  curious  as  the  kittens  erst  had  been 

To  learn  what  this  phenomenon  might  mean. 

FilPd  with  heroic  ardour  at  the  sight, 

And  fearing  every  moment  he  would  bite, 

And  rob  our  household  of  our  only  cat 

That  was  of  age  to  combat  with  a  rat ; 

With  outstretched  hoe  I  slew  him  at  the  door, 

And  taught  him  never  to  come  there  no  more. 

William  Cowper. 
CCCLXVI. 

THE  JACKDAW. 

THERE  is  a  bird,  who  by  his  coat, 
And  by  the  hoarseness  of  his  note, 
Might  be  supposed  a  crow ; 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

A  great  frequenter  of  the  church, 
Where  bishop-like  he  finds  a  perch, 
And  dormitory  too. 

Above  the  steeple  shines  a  plate, 
That  turns  and  turns,  to  indicate 

From  what  point  blows  the  weather  : 
Look  up — your  brains  begin  to  swim, 
'Tis  in  the  clouds — that  pleases  him, 

He  chooses  it  the  rather. 

Fond  of  the  speculative  height, 
Thither  he  wings  his  airy  flight, 

And  thence  securely  sees 
The  bustle  and  the  rareeshow 
That  occupy  mankind  below, 

Secure  and  at  his  ease. 

You  think,  no  doubt,  he  sits  and  muses, 
On  future  broken  bones  and  bruises, 

If  he  should  chance  to  fall. 
No  ;  not  a  single  thought  like  that 
Employs  his  philosophic  pate, 

Or  troubles  it  at  all. 

He  sees  that  this  great  roundabout, 
The  world,  with  all  its  motley  rout, 

Church,  army,  physic,  law, 
Its  customs  and  its  businesses, 
Is  no  concern  at  all  of  his, 

And  says — what  says  he  ? — Caw. 

Thrice  happy  bird  !  I  too  have  seen 
Much  of  the  vanities  of  men  ; 

And,  sick  of  having  seen  'em, 
Would  cheerfully  these  limbs  resign 
For  such  a  pair  of  wings  as  thine, 

And  such  a  head  between  'em. 

William  Ccnufer. 


264  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

CCCLXVII. 
THE  WALTZ. 

BEHOLD  with  downcast  eyes  and  modest  glance, 
In  measur'd  step,  a  well  dress'd  pair  advance, 
One  hand  on  hers,  the  other  on  her  hip, 
(But  licens'd  not  to  neighbouring  parts  to  slip)  I 
For  thus  the  law's  ordain'd  by  Baron  Trip. 
'Twas  in  such  posture  our  first  parents  mov'd 
When  hand  in  hand  thro'  Eden's  bowers  they  rov'd, 
Ere  yet  the  devil,  with  practice  foul  and  false, 
Turn'd  their  poor  heads,  and  taught  them  how  to  waltz. 
Rt.  Honble.  Richard  B.  Sheridan. 


CCCLXVIII. 

AN  EPISTLE  TO  JOSEPH  HILL,  ESQ. 

DEAR  JOSEPH — five  and  twenty  years  ago — 
Alas,  how  time  escapes  ! — 'tis  even  so — 
With  frequent  intercourse,  and  always  sweet, 
And  always  friendly,  we  were  wont  to  cheat 
A  tedious  hour — and  now  we  never  meet ! 
As  some  grave  gentleman  in  Terence  says 
('Twas  therefore  much  the  same  in  ancient  days), 
Good  lack,  we  know  not  what  to-morrow  brings — 
Strange  fluctuation  of  all  human  things  ! 
True.    Changes  will  befall,  and  friends  may  part, 
But  distance  only  cannot  change  the  heart : 
And,  were  I  call'd  to  prove  th'  assertion  true, 
One  proof  should  serve — a  reference  tp  you. 

Whence  comes  it  then,  that  in  the  wane  of  life, 
Though  nothing  have  occurr'd  to  kindle  strife, 
We  find  the  friends  we  fancied  we  had  won, 
Though  num'rous  once,  reduced  to  few  or  none  ? 
Can  gold  grow  worthless,  that  has  stood  the  touch  ? 
No ;  gold  they  seem'd,  but  they  were  never  such. 

Horatio's  servant  once,  with  bow  and  cringe, 
Swinging  the  parlour-door  upon  its  hinge, 
Dreading  a  negative,  and  overaw'd 
Lest  he  should  trespass,  begg'd  to  go  abroad. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  26$ 

Go,  fellow  ! — whither  ? — turning  short  about — 
Nay.     Stay  at  home — you're  always  going  out. 
'Tis  but  a  step,  sir,  just  at  the  street's  end. — 
For  what  ? — An  please  you,  sir,  to  see  a  friend. — 
A  friend  !  Horatio  cried,  and  seem'd  to  start — 
Yea  marry  shalt  thou,  and  with  all  my  heart. — 
And  fetch  my  cloak  ;  for,  though  the  night  be  raw, 
I'll  see  him  too — the  first  I  ever  saw. 

I  knew  the  man,  and  knew  his  nature  mild, 
And  was  his  plaything  often  when  a  child ; 
But  somewhat  at  that  moment  pinch'd  him  close, 
Else  he  was  seldom  bitter  or  morose. 
Perhaps  his  confidence  just  then  betray'd, 
His  grief  might  prompt  him  with  the  speech  he  made  ; 
Perhaps  'twas  mere  good  humour  gave  it  birth, 
The  harmless  play  of  pleasantry  and  mirth. 
Howe'er  it  was,  his  language,  in  my  mind, 
Bespoke  at  least  a  man  that  knew  mankind. 

But  not  to  moralize  too  much,  and  strain 
To  prove  an  evil,  of  which  all  complain, 
(I  hate  long  arguments  verbosely  spun), 
One  story  more,  dear  Hill,  and  I  have  done. 
Once  on  a  time  an  emp'ror,  a  wise  man, 
No  matter  where,  in  China  or  Japan, 
Decreed,  that  whosoever  should  offend 
Against  the  well-known  duties  of  a  friend, 
Convicted  once  should  ever  after  wear 
But  half  a  coat,  and  show  his  bosom  bare. 
The  punishment  importing  this,  no  doubt, 
That  all  was  naught  within,  and  all  found  out 

O  happy  Britain  !  we  have  not  to  fear 
Such  hard  and  arbitrary  measure  here ; 
Else  could  a  law,  like  that  which  I  relate, 
Once  have  the  sanction  of  our  triple  state, 
Some  few  that  I  have  known  in  days  of  old, 
Would  run  most  dreadful  risk  of  catching  cold  ; 
While  you,  my  friend,  whatever  wind  should  blow, 
Might  traverse  England  safely  to  and  fro, 
An  honest  man,  close  button'd  to  the  chin, 
Broad-cloth  without,  and  a  warm  heart  within. 

William  Cowper. 


266  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

CCCLXIX. 

CATHARINA. 
Addressed  to  Miss  Stapleton. 

SHE  came — she  is  gone — we  have  met — 

And  meet  perhaps  never  again  ; 
The  sun  of  that  moment  is  set, 

And  seems  to  have  risen  in  vain. 
Catharina  has  fled  like  a  dream — 

(So  vanishes  pleasure,  alas  !  ) 
But  has  left  a  regret  and  esteem, 

That  will  not  so  suddenly  pass. 

The  last  ev'ning  ramble  we  made, 

Catharina,  Maria,  and  I, 
Our  progress  was  often  delay'd 

By  the  nightingale  warbling  nigh. 
We  paus'd  under  many  a  tree, 

And  much  she  was  charm'd  with  a  tone 
Less  sweet  to  Maria  and  me, 

Who  so  lately  had  witness 'd  her  own. 

My  numbers  that  day  she  had  sung, 

And  gave  them  a  grace  so  divine, 
As  only  her  musical  tongue 

Could  infuse  into  numbers  of  mine. 
The  longer  I  heard,  I  esteem'd 

The  work  of  my  fancy  the  more, 
And  e'en  to  myself  never  seem'd 

So  tuneful  a  poet  before. 

Though  the  pleasures  of  London  exceed 

In  number  the  days  of  the  year, 
Catharina,  did  nothing  impede, 

Would  feel  herself  happier  here; 
For  the  close-woven  arches  of  limes 

On  the  banks  of  our  river,  I  know, 
Are  sweeter  to  her  many  times 

Than  aught  that  the  city  can  show. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

So  it  is,  when  the  mind  is  endued 

With  a  well-judging  taste  from  above  ; 
Then,  whether  embellish'd  or  rude, 

'Tis  nature  alone  that  we  love. 
Th'  achievements  of  art  may  amuse, 

May  even  our  wonder  excite, 
But  groves,  hills,  and  valleys  diffuse 

A  lasting,  a  sacred  delight. 

Since  then  in  the  rural  recess 

Catharina  alone  can  rejoice, 
May  it  still  be  her  lot  to  possess 

The  scene  of  her  sensible  choice  ! 
To  inhabit  a  mansion  remote 

From  the  clatter  of  street-pacing  steeds, 
And  by  Philomel's  annual  note 

To  measure  the  life  that  she  leads. 

With  her  book,  and  her  voice,  and  her  lyre, 

To  wing  all  her  moments  at  home  ; 
And  with  scenes  that  new  rapture  inspire, 

As  oft  as  it  suits  her  to  roam ; 
She  will  have  just  the  life  she  prefers, 

With  little  to  hope  or  to  fear, 
And  ours  would  be  pleasant  as  hers, 

Might  we  view  her  enjoying  it  here. 

William  Coivper. 


THE  DESPAIRING  LOVER. 

DISTRACTED  with  care, 
For  Phillis  the  fair, 
Since  nothing  can  move  her, 
Poor  Damon,  her  lover, 
Resolves  in  despair 
No  longer  to  languish, 
Nor  bear  so  much  anguish ; 
But,  mad  with  his  love, 

To  a  precipice  goes, 
Where  a  leap  from  above 

Will  soon  finish  his  woes. 


267 


263  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

When,  in  rage,  he  came  there, 

Beholding  how  steep 
The  sides  did  appear, 

And  the  bottom  how  deep  ; 
His  torments  projecting, 
And  sadly  reflecting 
That  a  lover  forsaken 

A  new  lover  may  get ; 
But  a  neck,  when  once  broken, 

Can  never  be  set : 

And  that  he  could  die 

Whenever  he  would  ; 
But  that  he  could  live 

But  as  long  as  he  could  ; 
How  grievous  soever 

The  torment  might  grow, 
He  scorn'd  to  endeavour 

To  finish  it  so. 
But  bold,  unconcern 'd, 

At  the  thoughts  of  the  pain, 
He  calmly  return'd 

To  his  cottage  again. 

William  WalsA, 


SYMPATHY. 

A  KNIGHT  and  a  lady  once  met  in  a  grove, 
While  each  was  in  quest  of  a  fugitive  love  ; 
A  river  ran  mournfully  murmuring  by, 
And  they  wept  in  its  waters  for  sympathy. 

"  O,  never  was  knight  such  a  sorrow  that  bore !  " 
"  O,  never  was  maid  so  deserted  before  !  " 
"From  life  and  its  woes  let  us  instantly  fly, 
And  jump  in  together  for  company  !  " 

They  search'd  for  an  eddy  that  suited  the  deed, 
But  here  was  a  bramble,  and  there  was  a  weed ; 
"  How  tiresome  it  is !  "  said  the  fair  with  a  sigh  ; 
So  they  sat  down  to  rest  them  in  company. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 


269 


They  gazed  at  each  other,  the  maid  and  the  knight  ; 
How  fair  was  her  form,  and  how  goodly  his  height ! 
"  One  mournful  embrace  ;  "  sobb'd  the  youth, "  ere  we  die  ! " 
So  kissing  and  crying  kept  company. 

"  O,  had  I  but  lov'd  such  an  angel  as  you !  " 
"O,  had  but  my  swain  been  a  quarter  as  true  ! " 
"  To  miss  such  perfection  how  blinded  was  I !  " 
Sure  now  they  were  excellent  company  ! 

At  length  spoke  the  lass,  'twixt  a  smile  and  a  tear, 
"  The  weather  is  cold  for  a  watery  bier  ; 
When  summer  returns  we  may  easily  die, 
Till  then  let  us  sorrow  in  company." 

Reginald  Heber. 


CCCLXXII. 
THE  CHAUNT  OF  THE  BRAZEN  HEAD. 

I  THINK  whatever  mortals  crave, 

With  impotent  endeavour, — 
A  wreath,  a  rank,  a  throne,  a  grave, — 

The  world  goes  round  for  ever : 
I  think  that  life  is  not  too  long  ; 

And  therefore  I  determine, 
That  many  people  read  a  song 

Who  will  not  read  a  sermon. 

I  think  you've  look'd  through  many  hearts, 

And  mused  on  many  actions, 
And  studied  man's  component  parts, 

And  Nature's  compound  fractions  : 
I  think  you've  pick'd  up  truths  by  bits 

From  foreigner  and  neighbour ; 
I  think  the  world  has  lost  its  wits, 

And  you  have  lost  your  labour. 

I  think  the  studies  of  the  wise, 

The  hero's  noisy  quarrel, 
The  majesty  of  Woman's  eyes, 

The  poet's  cherish'd  laurel, 


270 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

And  all  that  makes  us  lean  or  fat, 
And  all  that  charms  or  troubles, — 

This  bubble  is  more  bright  than  that, 
But  still  they  are  all  bubbles. 

I  think  the  thing  you  call  Renown, 

The  unsubstantial  vapour 
For  which  the  soldier  burns  a  town, 

The  sonnetteer  a  taper, 
Is  like  the  mist  which,  as  he  flies, 

The  horseman  leaves  behind  him  ; 
He  cannot  mark  its  wreaths  arise, 

Or  if  he  does  they  blind  him. 

I  think  one  nod  of  Mistress  Chance 

Makes  creditors  of  debtors, 
And  shifts  the  funeral  for  the  dance, 

The  sceptre  for  the  fetters  : 
I  think  that  Fortune's  fayored  guest 

May  live  to  gnaw  the  platters, 
And  he  that  wears  the  purple  vest 

May  wear  the  rags  and  tatters. 

I  think  the  Tories  love  to  buy 

"  Your  Lordship's  "  and  "  your  Grace's,* 
By  loathing  common  honesty, 

And  lauding  commonplaces  : 
I  think  that  some  are  very  wise, 

And  some  are  very  funny, 
And  some  grow  rich  by  telling  lies, 

And  some  by  telling  money. 

I  think  the  Whigs  are  wicked  knaves — 

(And  very  like  the  Tories) — 
Who  doubt  that  Britain  rules  the  waves, 

And  ask  the  price  of  glories  : 
I  think  that  many  fret  and  fume 

At  what  their  friends  are  planning, 
And  Mr.  Hume  hates  Mr.  Brougham 

As  much  as  Mr.  Canning. 

I  think  that  friars  and  their  hoods, 
Their  doctrines  and  their  maggots, 

Have  lighted  up  too  many  feuds, 
And  far  too  many  faggots : 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

I  think,  while  zealots  fast  and  frown, 

And  fight  for  two  or  seven, 
That  there  are  fifty  roads  to  Town, 

And  rather  more  to  Heaven. 

I  think  that,  thanks  to  Paget's  lance, 

And  thanks  to  Chester's  learning, 
The  hearts  that  burn'd  for  fame  in  France 

At  home  are  safe  from  burning  : 
I  think  the  Pope  is  on  his  back ; 

And,  though  'tis  fun  to  shake  him, 
I  think  the  Devil  not  so  black 

As  many  people  make  him. 

I  think  that  Love  is  like  a  play, 

Where  tears  and  smiles  are  blended, 
Or  like  a  faithless  April  day, 

Whose  shine  with  shower  is  ended  : 
Like  Colnbrook  pavement,  rather  rough, 

Like  trade,  exposed  to  losses, 
And  like  a  Highland  plaid, — all  stuff, 

And  very  full  of  crosses, 

1  think  the  world,  though  dark  it  be, 

Has  aye  one  rapturous  pleasure 
Conceal'd  in  life's  monotony, 

For  those  who  seek  the  treasure ; 
One  planet  in  a  starless  night, 

One  blossom  on  a  briar, 
One  friend  not  quite  a  hypocrite, 

One  woman  not  a  liar  I 

I  think  poor  beggars  court  St.  Giles, 

Rich  beggars  court  St.  Stephen  ; 
And  Death  looks  down  with  nods  and  smiles, 

And  makes  the  odds  all  even  : 
I  think  some  die  upon  the  field, 

And  some  upon  the  billow, 
And  some  are  laid  beneath  a  shield, 

And  some  beneath  a  willow. 

I  think  that  very  few  have  sigh'd 
When  Fate  at  last  has  found  them, 

Though  bitter  foes  were  by  their  side, 
And  barren  moss  around  them  : 


272  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

I  think  that  some  have  died  of  drought, 

And  some  have  died  of  drinking  ; 
I  think  that  nought  is  worth  a  thought,— 

And  I'm  a  fool  for  thinking ! 

Winthrop  M.  Praed. 
CCCLXXIII. 

A  RIDDLE  ON  THE  LETTER  H. 

'TWAS  in  heaven  pronounced — it  was  mutter'd  in  hell, 

And  echo  caught  faintly  the  sound  as  it  fell  5 

On  the  confines  of  earth  'twas  permitted  to  rest, 

And  the  depths  of  the  ocean  its  presence  confess'd. 

'Twill  be  found  in  the  sphere,  when  'tis  riven  asunder. 

Be  seen  in  the  light'ning,  and  heard  in  the  thunder. 

'Twas  allotted  to  man  with  his  earliest  breath, 

Attends  at  his  birth  and  awaits  him  in  death  : 

Presides  o'er  his  happiness,  honour,  and  health, 

Is  the  prop  of  his  house,  and  the  end  of  his  wealth 

In  the  heaps  of  the  miser  'tis  hoarded  with  care, 

But  is  sure  to  be  lost  on  his  prodigal  heir. 

It  begins  every  hope,  every  wish  it  must  bound, 

With  the  husbandman  toils,  and  with  monarchs  is  crown 'd. 

Without  it  the  soldier,  the  seaman  may  roam, 

But  woe  to  the  wretch  who  expels  it  from  home  ! 

In  the  whispers  of  conscience  its  voice  will  be  found, 

Nor  e'en  in  the  whirlwind  of  passion  is  drown'd. 

Twill  not  soften  the  heart ;  and  tho'  deaf  be  the  ear, 

It  will  make  it  acutely  and  instantly  hear. 

Yet  in  shade  let  it  rest  like  a  delicate  flower, 

Ah,  breathe  on  it  softly — it  dies  in  an  hour. 

Catherine  Fanshawe. 
CCCLXXIV. 
CHARADE  ON  THE  NAME  OF  THE  POET  CAMPBELL. 

COME  from  my  First,  ay,  come  ; 

The  battle  dawn  is  nigh ; 
And  the  screaming  trump  and  the  thundering  drum 

Are  calling  thee  to  die  ; 


LYRA  ELEGANTIA.RUM. 

Fight,  as  thy  father  fought ; 

Fall,  as  thy  father  fell  : 
Thy  task  is  taught,  thy  shroud  is  wrought ; 

So,  forward !  and  farewell ! 

Toll  ye  my  Second,  toll  ; 

Fling  high  the  flambeau's  light ; 
And  sing  the  hymn  for  a  parted  soul 

Beneath  the  silent  night ; 
The  helm  upon  his  head, 

The  cross  upon  his  breast, 
Let  the  prayer  be  said,  and  the  tear  be  shed ; 

Now  take  him  to  his  rest ! 

Call  ye  my  Whole,  go,  call ; 

The  Lord  of  lute  and  lay ; 
And  let  him  greet  the  sable  pall 

With  a  noble  song  to-day: 
Ay,  call  him  by  his  name ; 

No  fitter  hand  may  crave 
To  light  the  flame  of  a  soldier's  fame 

On  the  turf  of  a  soldier's  grave  ! 

Winthrop  M.  Praed. 

CCCLXXV. 

WITH  PETRARCH'S  SONNETS. 

BEHOLD  what  homage  to  his  idol  paid 

The  tuneful  suppliant  of  Valclusa's  shade. 

His  verses  still  the  tender  heart  engage, 

They  charm'd  a  rude,  and  please  a  polish'd  age: 

Some  are  to  nature  and  to  passion  true, 

And  all  had  been  so,  had  he  lived  for  you. 

Walter  S.  Landor. 

CCCLXXVI. 
THE  MAIDEN  BLUSH. 

So  look  the  mornings,  when  the  sun 
Paints  them  with  fresh  vermilion  ; 
So  cherries  blush,  and  Catherine  pears, 
And  apricots,  in  youthful  years  ; 


273 


274  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

So  corals  look  more  lovely  red, 
And  rubies  lately  polished  ; 
So  purest  diaper  doth  shine, 
Stained  by  the  beams  of  claret  wine  ; 
As  Julia  looks,  when  she  doth  dress 
Her  either  cheek  with  bashfulness. 


Robert  Herrick. 


CCCLXXVII. 
DOLCE  FAR  NIENTE. 

SOOTH  'twere  a  pleasant  life  to  lead, 

With  nothing  in  the  world  to  do, 
But  just  to  blow  a  shepherd's  reed, 

The  silent  seasons  thro'  : — 
And  just  to  drive  a  flock  to  feed, — 

Sheep, — quiet,  fond,  and  few  1 

Pleasant  to  breathe  beside  a  brook, 
And  count  the  bubbles,  love-worlds,  there; 

To  muse  within  some  minstrel's  book, 
Or  watch  the  haunted  air ; — 

To  slumber  in  some  leafy  nook, — 
Or  idle  anywhere. 

And  then,  a  draught  of  nature's  wine, 
A  meal  of  summer's  daintiest  fruit; 

To  take  the  air  with  forms  divine  ; 
Clouds,  silvery,  cool,  and  mute  ; 

Descending,  if  the  night  be  fine, 
In  a  star-parachute. 

Give  me  to  live  with  Love  alone, 
And  let  the  world  go  dine  and  dress ; 

For  Love  hath  lowly  haunts — a  stone 
Holds  something  meant  to  bless. 

If  life's  a  flower,  I  choose  my  own — 
'Tis  "  Love  in  Idleness." 

Laman  Blanchard. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  „, 


CCCLXXVIII. 

NAMES. 

I  ASKED  my  fair  one  happy  day, 
What  I  should  call  her  in  my  lay  ; 

By  what  sweet  name  from  Rome  or  Greece ; 
Lalage,  Nesera,  Chloris, 
Sappho,  Lesbia,  or  Doris, 
Arethusa  or  Lucrece. 

"  Ah  ! "  replied  my  gentle  fair, 

"  Beloved,  what  are  names  but  air  ? 

Choose  thou  whatever  suits  the  line ; 
Call  me  Sappho,  call  me  Chloris, 
Call  me  Lalage  or  Doris, 

Only,  only  call  me  thine." 

Samuel  T.  Coleridge. 

CCCLXXTX. 
DESTINY  UNCERTAIN. 

GRACEFULLY  shy  is  yon  Gazelle  : 
And  are  those  eyes,  so  clear,  so  mild, 
Only  to  shine  upon  a  wild 

And  be  reflected  in  a  shallow  well  ? 

Ah !  who  can  tell  ? 

If  she  grows  tamer,  who  shall  pat 

Her  neck  ?  who  wreathe  the  flowers  around  ? 
Who  give  the  name  ?  who  pace  the  ground  ? 
Pondering  these  things  a  grave  old  Dervish  sat, 

And  sigh'd,  Ah  !  who  can  tell  ? 
Walter  S.  Landor. 

CCCLXXX. 

VERSES. 

WHY  write  my  name  'midst  songs  and  flowers, 

To  meet  the  eye  of  lady  gay  ? 
I  have  no  voice  for  lady's  bowers — 

For  page  like  this  no  fitting  lay. 


276  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

Yet  tho'  my  heart  no  more  must  bound 
At  witching  call  of  sprightly  joys, 

Mine  is  the  brow  that  never  frown'd 
On  laughing  lips,  or  sparkling  eyes. 

No — though  behind  me  now  is  clos'd 
The  youthful  paradise  of  Love, 

Yet  can  I  bless,  with  soul  compos'd, 
The  lingerers  in  that  happy  grove  I 

Take,  then,  fair  girls,  my  blessing  take  ! 

Where'er  amid  its  charms  you  roam; 
Or  where,  by  western  hill  or  lake, 

You  brighten  a  serener  home. 

And  while  the  youthful  lover's  name 
Here  with  the  sister  beauty's  blends, 

Laugh  not  to  scorn  the  humbler  aim, 
That  to  their  list  would  add  a  friend's ! 

Francis,  Lord  Jeffrey. 

CCCLXXXI. 
ALBUM  VERSES. 

THOU  record  of  the  votive  throng, 
That  fondly  seek  this  fairy  shrine, 

And  pay  the  tribute  of  a  song 

Where  worth  and  loveliness  combine, — 

What  boots  that  I,  a  vagrant  wight 

From  clime  to  clime  still  wandering  on, 

Upon  thy  friendly  page  should  write 
— Who'll  think  of  me  when  I  am  gone  ? 

Go  plough  the  wave,  and  sow  the  sand  I 
Throw  seed  to  ev'ry  wind  that  blows  ; 

Along  the  highway  strew  thy  hand, 
And  fatten  on  the  crop  that  grows. 

For  even  thus  the  man  that  roams 

On  heedless  hearts  his  feeling  spends  ; 

Strange  tenant  of  a  thousand  homes, 
And  friendless,  with  ten  thousand  friends  I 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  z 

Yet  here,  for  once,  I'll  leave  a  trace, 

To  ask  in  after  times  a  thought ! 
To  say  that  here  a  resting-place 

My  wayworn  heart  has  fondly  sought. 

So  the  poor  pilgrim  heedless  strays, 
Unmoved,  thro'  many  a  region  fair  ; 

But  at  some  shrine  his  tribute  pays 
To  tell  that  he  has  worshipp'd  there. 

Washington  Irving. 


CCCLXXXII. 

BURN  HAM-BEECHES. 

A  BARD,  dear  muse,  unapt  to  sing, 

Your  friendly  aid  beseeches. 
Help  me  to  touch  the  lyric  string, 

In  praise  of  Burnham-beeches. 

What  tho'  my  tributary  lines 

Be  less  like  Pope's  than  Creech's, 

The  theme,  if  not  the  poet,  shines, 
So  bright  are  Burnham-beeches. 

O'er  many  a  dell  and  upland  walk, 

Their  silvan  beauty  reaches, 
Of  Birnam-wood  let  Scotland  talk, 

While  we've  our  Burnham-beeches. 

Oft  do  I  linger,  oft  return, 

(Say,  who  my  taste  impeaches) 

Where  holly,  juniper,  and  fern, 
Spring  up  round  Burnham-beeches. 

Tho'  deep  embower'd  their  shades  among, 
The  owl  at  midnight  screeches, 

Birds  of  far  merrier,  sweeter  song, 
Enliven  Burnham-beeches. 

If  "  sermons  be  in  stones,"  I'll  bet 

Our  vicar,  when  he  preaches, 
He'd  find  it  easier  far  to  get 

A  hint  from  Burnham-beeches. 


278  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

Their  glossy  rind  here  winter  stains, 

Here  the  hot  solstice  bleaches. 
Bow,  stubborn  oaks  !  bow,  graceful  planes ! 

Ye  match  not  Burnham-beeches. 

Gardens  may  boast  a  tempting  show 
Of  nectarines,  grapes,  and  peaches, 

But  daintiest  truffles  lurk  below 
The  boughs  of  Burnham-beeches. 

Poets  and  painters,  hither  hie, 

Here  ample  room  for  each  is 
With  pencil  and  with  pen  to  try 

His  hand  at  Burnham-beeches. 

When  monks,  by  holy  Church  well  schooled, 
•        Were  lawyers,  statesmen,  leeches, 
Cured  souls  and  bodies,  judged  or  ruled, 
Then  flourished  Burnham-beeches. 

Skirting  the  convent's  walls  of  yore, 

As  yonder  ruin  teaches. 
But  shaven  crown  and  cowl  no  more 

Shall  darken  Burnham-beeches. 

Here  bards  have  mused,  here  lovers  true 
Have  dealt  in  softest  speeches, 

While  suns  declined,  and,  parting,  threw 
Their  gold  o'er  Burnham-beeches. 

O  ne'er  may  woodman's  axe  resound, 
Nor  tempest,  making  breaches 

In  the  sweet  shade  that  cools  the  ground 
Beneath  our  Burnham-beeches. 

Hold  !  tho'  I'd  fain  be  jingling  on, 
My  power  no  further  reaches — 

Again  that  rhyme  ?  enough — I've  done, 
Farewell  to  Burnham-beeches. 

Henry  Luttrell. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 
CCCLXXXIir. 

NETS  AND  CAGES. 

COME,  listen  to  my  story,  while 
Your  needle's  task  you  ply ; 
At  what  I  sing  some  maids  will  smile, 

While  some,  perhaps,  may  sigh. 
Tho'  Love's  the  theme,  and  Wisdom  blames 

Such  florid  songs  as  ours, 
Yet  Truth  sometimes,  like  Eastern  dames, 
Can  speak  her  thoughts  by  flowers. 
Then  listen,  maids,  come  listen,  while 

Your  needle's  task  you  ply ; 
At  what  I  sing  there's  some  may  smile, 
While  some,  perhaps,  may  sigh. 

Young  Chloe  bent  on  catching  Loves, 

Such  nets  had  learnt  to  frame, 
That  none,  in  all  our  vales  and  groves, 

E'er  caught  so  much  small  game  : 
But  gentle  Sue,  less  giv'n  to  roam, 

While  Chloe's  nets  were  taking 
Such  lots  of  Loves,  sat  still  at  home, 

One  little  Love-cage  making. 

Come,  listen,  maids,  etc. 

Much  Chloe  laugh'd  at  Susan's  task  ; 

But  mark  how  things  went  on : 
These  light-caught  Loves,  ere  you  could  ask 

Their  name  and  age,  were  gone  ! 
So  weak  poor  Chloe's  nets  were  wove, 

That,  tho'  she  charm'd  into  them 
New  game  each  hour,  the  youngest  Love 

Was  able  to  break  through  them, 

Come,  listen,  maids,  etc. 

Meanwhile,  young  Sue,  whose  cage  was  wrought 

Of  bars  too  strong  to  sever, 
One  Love  with  golden  pinions  caught, 

And  caged  him  there  for  ever  : 


279 


280  LYRA   ELEGANTIARUM. 

Instructing,  thereby,  all  coquettes, 

What'er  their  looks  or  ages, 
That,  tho'  'tis  pleasant  weaving  Nets, 
'Tis  wiser  to  make  Cages. 
Thus,  maidens,  thus  do  I  beguile 

The  task  your  fingers  ply, — 
May  all  who  hear,  like  Susan  smile, 
And  not,  like  Chloe,  sigh ! 

Thomas  Moore. 

CCCLXXXIV. 

OVER  A  COVERED   SEAT  IN   THE   FLOWER-GARDEN   AT 
HOLLAND  HOUSE 

Where  the  Author  of  the  "Pleasures  of  Memory'1''  was  accus- 
tomed to  sit,  appear  the  following  lines. 

HERE  Rogers  sat,  and  here  for  ever  dwell, 
To  me,  those  pleasures  that  he  sang  so  well. 

Lord  Holland. 


CCCLXXXV. 

ON  SAMUEL  ROGERS'  SEAT  IN  THE  GARDEN  AT  HOLLAND 
HOUSE. 

How  happily  shelter'd  is  he  who  reposes 
In  this  haunt  of  the  poet,  o'ershadow'd  with  roses, 
While  the  sun  is  rejoicing,  unclouded,  on  high, 
And  summer's  full  majesty  reigns  in  the  sky  ! 

Let  me  in,  and  be  seated. — I'll  try  if,  thus  placed, 
I  can  catch  but  one  spark  of  his  feeling  and  taste, 
Can  steal  a  sweet  note  from  his  musical  strain, 
Or  a  ray  of  his  genius  to  kindle  my  brain. 

Well — now  I  am  fairly  install'd  in  the  bower, 
How  lovely  the  scene  !     How  propitious  the  hour  I 
The  breeze  is  perfumed  by  the  hawthorn  it  stirs; 
All  is  beauty  around  me  ; — but  nothing  occurs, 
Not  a  thought,  I  protest,  though  I'm  here  and  alone, 
Not  a  line  can  I  hit  on,  that  Rogers  would  own, 
Though  my  senses  are  ravish'd,  my  feelings  in  tune, 
And  Holland's  my  host,  and  the  season  is  June. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

The  trial  is  ended.     Nor  garden,  nor  grove, 
Though  poets  amid  them  may  linger  or  rove, 
Nor  a  seat  e'en  so  hallow'd  as  this  can  impart 
The  fancy  and  fire  that  must  spring  from  the  heart. 
So  I  rose,  since  the  Muses  continue  to  frown, 
No  more  of  a  poet  than  when  I  sat  down  ; 
While  Rogers,  on  whom  they  look  kindly,  can  strike 
Their  lyre,  at  all  times,  in  all  places,  alike. 

Henry  Luttrell. 

CCCLXXXVI. 
THE  BELLE  OF  THE  BALL-ROOM. 

YEARS — years  ago, — ere  yet  my  dreams 

Had  been  of  being  wise  or  witty, — 
Ere  I  had  clone  with  writing  themes, 

Or  yawn'd  o'er  this  infernal  Chitty; — 
Years — years  ago, — while  all  my  joy 

Was  in  my  fowling-piece  and  filly, — 
In  short,  while  I  was  yet  a  boy, 

I  fell  in  love  with  Laura  Lily. 

I  saw  her  at  the  County  Ball  : 

There,  when  the  sounds  of  flute  and  fiddle 
Gave  signal  sweet  in  that  old  hall 

Of  hands  across  and  down  the  middle, 
Hers  was  the  subtlest  spell  by  far 

Of  all  that  set  young  hearts  romancing  ; 
She  was  our  queen,  our  rose,  our  star ; 

And  then  she  danced — O  Heaven,  her  dancing  ! 

Dark  was  her  hair,  her  hand  was  white ; 

Her  voice  was  exquisitely  tender  ; 
Her  eyes  were  full  of  liquid  light ; 

I  never  saw  a  waist  so  slender  1 
Her  every  look,  her  every  smile, 

Shot  right  and  left  a  score  of  arrows ; 
I  thought  'twas  Venus  from  her  isle, 
And  wonder'd  where  she'd  left  her  sparrows. 

She  talk'd, — of  politics  or  prayers, — 

Or  Southey's  prose,  or  Wordsworth's  sonnets,— 
Of  danglers — or  of  dancing  bears, 

Of  battles — or  the  last  new  bonnets, 


282  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

By  candlelight,  at  twelve  o'clock, 
To  me  it  matter'd  not  a  tittle  ; 

If  those  bright  lips  had  quoted  Locke, 
I  might  have  thought  they  murmur'd  Little. 

Through  sunny  May,  through  sultry  June, 

I  love  her  with  a  loved  eternal ; 
I  spoke  her  praises  to  the  moon, 

I  wrote  them  to  the  Sunday  Journal : 
My  mother  laugh' d;  I  soon  found  out 

That  ancient  ladies  have  no  feeling: 
My  father  frown'd  ;  but  how  should  gout 

See  any  happiness  in  kneeling  ? 

She  was  the  daughter  of  a  Dean, 

Rich,  fat,  and  rather  apoplectic  ; 
She  had  one  brother,  just  thirteen, 

Whose  colour  was  extremely  hectic  ; 
Her  grandmother  for  many  a  year 

Had  fed  the  parish  with  her  bounty ; 
Her  second  cousin  was  a  peer, 

And  Lord  Lieutenant  of  the  County. 

But  titles,  and  the  three  per  cents., 

And  mortgages,  and  great  relations. 
And  India  bonds,  and  tithes,  and  rents, 

Oh  what  are  they  to  love's  sensations  ? 
Black  eyes,  fair  forehead,  clustering  locks — 

Such  wealth,  such  honours,  Cupid  chooses  ; 
He  cares  as  little  for  the  Stocks, 

As  Baron  Rothschild  for  the  Muses. 

She  sketch'd ;  the  vale,  the  wood,  the  beach, 

Grew  lovelier  from  her  pencil's  shading  : 
She  botanized  ;  I  envied  each 

Young  blossom  in  her  boudoir  fading : 
She  warbled  Handel ;  it  was  grand  ; 

She  made  the  Catalani  jealous  : 
She  touch'd  the  organ ;  I  could  stand 

For  hours  and  hours  to  blow  the  bellows. 

She  kept  an  album,  too,  at  home, 

Well  fill'd  with  all  an  album's  glories  ; 

Paintings  of  butterflies,  and  Rome, 

Patterns  for  trimmings,  Persian  stories  ; 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  '283 

Soft  songs  to  Julia's  cockatoo, 

Fierce  odes  to  Famine  and  to  Slaughter, 

And  autographs  of  Prince  Leboo, 
And  recipes  for  elder-water. 

And  she  was  flatter'd,  worhipp'd,  bored; 

Her  steps  were  watch'd,  her  dress  was  noted  ; 
Her  poodle  dog  was  quite  adored, 

Her  sayings  were  extremely  quoted; 
She  laugh'd,  and  every  heart  was  glad, 

As  if  the  taxes  were  abolish'd; 
She  frown'd,  and  every  look  was  sad, 

As  if  the  Opera  were  demolish'd. 

She  smiled  on  many,  just  for  fun, — 

I  knew  that  there  was  nothing  in  it; 
I  was  the  first — the  only  one 

Her  heart  had  thought  of  for  a  minute. — 
I  knew  it,  for  she  told  me  so, 

In  phrase  which  was  divinely  moulded; 
She  wrote  a  charming  hand, — and  oh  ! 

How  sweetly  all  her  notes  were  folded  1 

Our  love  was  like  most  other  loves  ; — 

A  little  glow,  a  little  shiver, 
A  rose-bud,  and  a  pair  of  gloves, 

And  "  Fly  not  yet  " — upon  the  river; 
Some  jealousy  of  some  one's  heir, 

Some  hopes  of  dying  broken-hearted, 
A  miniature,  a  lock  of  hair, 

The  usual  vows, — and  then  we  parted. 

We  parted  ;  months  and  years  roll'd  by; 

We  met  again  four  summers  after  : 
Our  parting  was  all  sob  and  sigh  ; 

Our  meeting  was  all  mirth  and  laughter: 
For  in  my  heart's  most  secret  cell 

There  had  been  many  other  lodgers  ; 
And  she  was  not  the  ball-room's  Belle, 

But  only — Mrs.  Something  Rogers  ! 

Winthrop  M.  Praed. 


284  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 


CCCLXXXVII. 
LOVE  AND  AGE. 

I  PLAY'Dwith  you  'mid  cowslips  blowing, 

When  I  was  six  and  you  were  four ; 
When  garlands  weaving,  flower-balls  throwing, 

Were  pleasures  soon  to  please  no  more. 
Thro'  groves  and  meads,  o'er  grass  and  heather, 

With  little  playmates,  to  and  fro, 
We  wander'd  hand  in  hand  together  ; 

But  that  was  sixty  years  ago 

You  grew  a  lovely  roseate  maiden, 

And  still  our  early  love  was  strong; 
Still  with  no  care  our  days  were  laden, 

They  glided  joyously  along  ; 
And  I  did  love  you  very  dearly — 

How  dearly,  words  want  power  to  show  ; 
I  thought  your  heart  was  touched  as  nearly; 

But  that  was  fifty  years  ago. 

Then  other  lovers  came  around  you, 

Your  beauty  grew  from  year  to  year, 
And  many  a  splendid  circle  found  you 

The  centre  of  its  glittering  sphere. 
I  saw  you  then,  first  vows  forsaking, 

On  rank  and  wealth  your  hand  bestow  ; 
O,  then,  I  thought  my  heart  was  breaking,— 

But  that  was  forty  years  ago. 

And  I  lived  on,  to  wed  another: 

No  cause  she  gave  me  to  repine ; 
And  when  I  heard  you  were  a  mother, 

I  did  not  wish  the  children  mine. 
My  own  young  flock,  in  fair  progression, 

Made  up  a  pleasant  Christmas  row : 
My  joy  in  them  was  past  expression ; — 

But  that  was  thirty  years  ago, 

You  grew  a  matron  plump  and  comely, 
You  dwelt  in  fashion's  brightest  blaze; 

My  earthly  lot  was  far  more  homely ; 
But  I  too  had  my  festal  days. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  285 

No  merrier  eyes  have  ever  glisten'd 
Around  the  hearth-stone's  wintry  glow, 

Than  when  my  youngest  child  was  christen'd : — 
But  that  was  twenty  years  ago. 

Time  past.     My  eldest  girl  was  married, 

And  I  am  now  a  grandsire  grey ; 
One  pet  of  four  years  old  I've  carried 

Among  the  wild-flower'd  meads  to  play. 
In  our  old  fields  of  childish  pleasure, 

Where  now,  as  then,  the  cowslips  blow, 
She  fills  her  basket's  ample  measure, — 

And  that  is  not  ten  years  ago. 

But  tho'  first  love's  impassion'd  blindness 

Has  pass'd  away  in  colder  light, 
I  still  have  thought  of  you  with  kindness, 

And  shall  do,  till  our  last  good-night. 
The  ever-rolling  silent  hours 

Will  bring  a  time  we  shall  not  know, 
When  our  young  days  of  gathering  flowers 

Will  be  an  hundred  years  ago. 

Thomas  L.  Peacock. 


CCCLXXXVIII. 

A  TEMPLE  TO  FRIENDSHIP. 

"  A  TEMPLE  to  Friendship,"  said  Laura,  enchanted, 

"  I'll  build  in  this  garden, — the  thought  is  divine  F' 
Her  temple  was  built,  and  she  now  only  wanted 

An  image  of  Friendship  to  place  on  the  shrine. 
She  flew  to  a  sculptor,  who  set  down  before  her 

A  Friendship,  the  fairest  his  art  could  invent ; 
But  so  cold  and  so  dull,  that  the  youthful' adorer 

Saw  plainly  this  was  not  the  idol  she  meant. 

"  O  never,"  she  cried,  "  could  I  think  of  enshrining 

"  An  image,  whose  looks  are  so  joyless  and  dim  : — 
But  yon  little  god,  upon  roses  reclining, 

We'll  make,  if  you  please,  sir,  a  Friendship  of  him." 
So  the  bargain  wa~s  struck  :  with  the  little  god  laden 

She  joyfully  flew  to  her  shrine  in  the  grove ; 
"  Farewell,"  said  the  sculptor,  "  you're  net  the  first  maiden 

Who  came  but  for  Friendship  and  took  away  Love. 

Thomas  M^ore. 


286  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

CCCLXXXIX. 

TO . 

Composed  at  Rotterdam. 

I  GAZE  upon  a  city, — 
A  city  new  and  strange, — 
Down  many  a  watery  vista 
My  fancy  takes  a  range  ; 
From  side  to  side  I  saunter, 
And  wonder  where  I  am  ; 
And  cm  you  be  in  England, 
And  /  at  Rotterdam  1 

Before  me  lie  dark  waters 
In  broad  canals  and  deep, 
Whereon  the  silver  moonbeams 
Sleep,  restless  in  their  sleep; 
A  sort  of  vulgar  Venice 
Reminds  me  where  I  am  ; 
Yes,  yes,  you  are  in  England, 
And  I'm  at  Rotterdam. 

Tall  houses  with  quaint  gables, 
Where  frequent  windows  shine, 
And  quays  that  lead  to  bridges, 
And  trees  in  formal  line, 
And  masts  of  spicy  vessels 
From  western  Surinam, 
All  tell  me  you're  in  England, 
But  I'm  in  Rotterdam. 

Those  sailors,  how  outlandish 
The  face  and  form  of  each  ! 
They  deal  in  foreign  gestures, 
And  use  a  foreign  speech ; 
A  tongue  not  learn'd  near  Isis, 
Or  studied  by  the  Cam, 
Declares  that  you're  in  England, 
And  I'm  at  Rotterdam. 

And  now  across  a  market 
My  doubtful  way  I  trace, 
Where  stands  a  solemn  statue 
The  Genius  of  the  place ; 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

And  to  the  great  Erasmus, 
I  offer  my  salaam  ; 
Who  tells  me  you're  in  England 
But  I'm  at  Rotterdam. 

The  coffee-room  is  open — 
I  mingle  in  its  crowd, — 
The  dominos  are  noisy — 
The  hookahs  raise  a  cloud  ; 
The  flavour,  none  of  Fearon's, 
That  mingles  with  my  dram, 
Reminds  me  you're  in  England, 
And  I'm  at  Rotterdam. 

Then  here  it  goes,  a  bumper — 
The  toast  it  shall  be  mine, 
In  schiedam,  or  in  sherry, 
Tokay,  or  hock  of  Rhine  ; 
It  well  deserves  the  brightest, 
Where  sunbeam  ever  swam — 
"  The  Girl  I  love  in  England  " 
I  drink  at  Rotterdam  ! 

Thomas  Hood. 

cccxc. 
THE  VICAR. 

SOME  years  ago,  ere  time  and  taste 

Had  turned  our  parish  topsy-turvy, 
When  Darnel  Park  was  Darnel  Waste, 

And  roads  as  little  known  as  scurvy, 
The  man  who  lost  his  way,  between 

St  Mary's  Hill  and  Sandy  Thicket, 
Was  always  shown  across  the  green, 

And  guided  to  the  Parson's  wicket 

Back  flew  the  bolt  of  lissom  lath  ; 

Fair  Margaret,  in  her  tidy  kirtle, 
Led  the  lorn  traveller  up  the  path, 

Through  clean-dipt  rows  of  box  and  myrtle  ; 
And  Don  and  Sancho,  Tramp  and  Tray, 

Upon  the  parlour  steps  collected, 
Wagged  all  their  tails,  and  seem'd  to  say — 

"  Our  master  knows  you — you're  expected." 


287 


288  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

Uprose  the  Reverend  Dr.  Brown, 

Uprose  the  Doctor's  winsome  marrow; 
The  lady  laid  her  knitting  down, 

Her  husband  clasped  his  ponderous  Barrow ; 
Whate'er  the  stranger's  caste  or  creed, 

Pundit  or  Papist,  saint  or  sinner, 
He  found  a  stable  for  his  steed, 

And  welcome  for  himself,  and  dinner. 

If,  when  he  reached  his  journey's  end, 

And  warm'd  himself  in  Court  or  College, 
He  had  not  gain'd  an  honest  friend 

And  twenty  curious  scraps  of  knowledge, — 
If  he  departed  as  he  came, 

With  no  new  light  on  love  and  liquor, — 
Good  sooth,  the  traveller  was  to  blame, 

And  not  the  Vicarage,  or  the  Vicar. 

His  talk  was  like  a  stream,  which  runs 

With  rapid  change  from  rocks  to  roses  : 
It  slipt  from  politics  to  puns, 

It  pass'd  from  Mahomet  to  Moses  ; 
Beginning  with  the  laws  which  keep 

The  planets  in  their  radiant  courses, 
And  ending  with  some  precept  deep 

For  dressing  eels,  or  shoeing  horses. 

He  was  a  shrewd  and  sound  Divine, 

Of  loud  Dissent  the  mortal  terror ; 
And  when,  by  dint  of  page  and  line, 

He  'stablish'd  Truth,  or  startled  Error, 
The  Baptist  found  him  far  too  deep  ; 

The  Deist  sigh'd  with  saving  sorrow ; 
And  the  lean  Levite  went  to  sleep, 

And  dream'd  of  tasting  pork  to-morrow. 

His  sermon  never  said  or  show'd 

That  earth  is  foul,  that  Heaven  is  gracious 
Without  refreshment  on  the  road 

From  Jerome,  or  from  Athanasius  : 
And  sure  a  righteous  zeal  inspired 

The  hand  and  head  that  penn'd  and  plann'd  them, 
For  all  who  understood  admired, 

And  some  who  did  not  understand  them. 


LYRA   ELEGANTIARUM. 

He  wrote,  too,  in  a  quiet  way, 

Small  treatises,  and  smaller  verses, 
And  sage  remarks  on  chalk  and  clay, 

And  hints  to  noble  Lords — and  nurses ; 
True  histories  of  last  year's  ghost, 

Lines  to  a  ringlet  or  a  turban, 
And  trifles  for  the  Morning  Post, 

And  nothings  for  Sylvanus  Urban. 

He  did  not  think  all  mischief  fair, 

Although  he  had  a  knack  of  joking; 
He  did  not  make  himself  a  bear 

Although  he  had  a  taste  for  smoking  ; 
And  when  religious  sects  ran  mad, 

He  held,  in  spite  of  all  his  learning, 
That  if  a  man's  belief  is  bad, 

It  will  not  be  improved  by  burning. 

And  he  was  kind,  and  loved  to  sit 

In  the  low  hut  or  garnish'd  cottage, 
And  praise  the  farmer's  homely  wit, 

And  share  the  widow's  homelier  pottage  : 
At  his  approach  complaint  grew  mild; 

And  when  his  hand  unbarr'd  the  shutter, 
The  clammy  lips  of  fever  smiled 

The  welcome  which  they  could  not  utter. 

He  always  had  a  tale  for  me 

Of  Julius  Caesar,  or  of  Venus  ; 
From  him  I  learnt  the  rule  of  three, 

Cat's  cradle,  leap-frog,  and  Qua  genus  : 
I  used  to  singe  his  powder'd  wig, 

To  steal  the  staff  he  put  such  trust  in, 
And  make  the  puppy  dance  a  jig, 

When  he  began  to  quote  Augustine. 

Alack  the  change  !  in  vain  I  look 

For  haunts  in  which  my  boyhood  trifled,— 
The  level  lawn,  the  trickling  brook, 

The  trees  I  climb'd,  the  beds  I  rifled  : 
The  church  is  larger  than  before; 

You  reach  it  by  a  carriage  entry ; 
It  holds  three  hundred  people  more, 

And  pews  are  fitted  up  for  gentry. 


289 


290  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

Sit  in  the  Vicar's  seat  :  you'll  hear 

The  doctrine  of  a  gentle  Johnian, 
Whose  hand  is  white,  whose  tone  is  clear, 

Whose  phrase  is  very  Ciceronian. 
Where  is  the  old  man  laid  ? — look  down, 

And  construe  on  the  slab  before  you, 
"  Hicjacet  Gvlielmvs  Brown, 

Vir  nulla  non  donandus  lauru. 

Winthrop  M.  Praed. 


cccxci. 

FROM  THE  HON.  HENRY To  LADY  EMMA . 

PARIS,  MARCH  30, 1832. 

You  bid  me  explain,  my  dear  angry  Ma'amselle, 

How  I  came  thus  to  bolt  without  saying  farewell  ; 

And  the  truth  is, — as  truth  you  will  have,  my  sweet  railer,— 

There  are  two  worthy  persons  I  always  feel  loth 
To  take  leave  of  at  starting, — my  mistress  and  tailor, — 

As  somehow  one  always  has  scenes  with  them  both  : 
The  Snip  in  ill-humour,  the  Syren  in  tears, 

She  calling  on  Heaven,  and  he  on  th'  attorney, — 
Till  sometimes,  in  short,  'twixt  his  duns  and  his  dears, 

A  young  gentleman  risks  being  stopp'd  in  his  journey. 

But,  to  come  to  the  point, — tho'  you  think,  I  daresay, 
That  'tis  debt  or  the  Cholera  drives  me  away, 
Ton  honour  you're  wrong  : — such  a  mere  bagatelle 

As  a  pestilence,  noflody,  now-a-days,  fears: 
And  the  fact  is,  my  love,  I'm  thus  bolting,  pell-mell, 

To  get  out  of  the  way  of  these  horrid  new  Peers ; 
This  deluge  of  coronets,  frightful  to  think  of, 
Which  England  is  now  for  her  sins,  on  the  brink  of, 
This  coinage  of  nobles, — coin'd,  all  of  them,  badly, 
And  sure  to  bring  counts  to  a  discount  most  sadly. 

Only  think,  to  have  Lords  overrunning  the  nation, 
As  plenty  as  frogs  in  a  Dutch  inundation ; 
No  shelter  from  Barons,  from  Earls  no  protection, 
And  tadpole  young  Lords,  too,  in  every  direction, — 
Things  created  in  haste,  just  to  make  a  Court  list  of, 
Two  legs  and  a  coronet  all  they  consist  of  ! 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 


29I 


The  prospect's  quite  frightful,  and  what  Sir  George  Rose 

(My  particular  friend)  says  is  perfectly  true, 
That,  so  dire  the  alternative,  nobody  knows, 
'Twixt  the  Peers  and  the  Pestilence,  what  he's  to  do; 
And  Sir  George  even  doubts,— could  he  choose  his  disorder,— 
'Twixt  coffin  and  coronet,  which  he  would  order, 

This  being  the  case,  why,  I  thought,  my  dear  Emma 
'Twere  best  to  fight  shy  of  so  curst  a  dilemma ; 
And  tho'  I  confess  myself  somewhat  a  villain 

To've  left  idol  mio  without  an  addio, 
Console  your  sweet  heart,  and,  a  week  hence,  from  Milan 

I'll  send  you — some  news  of  Bellini's  last  trio. 

N.  B. — Have  just  pack'd  up  my  travelling  set-out, 

Things  a  tourist  in  Italy  can't  go  without — 

Viz,  a  pair  oigants  gras,  from  old  Houbigant's  shop, 

Good  for  hands  that  the  air  of  Mont  Cenis  might  chap, 

Small  presents  for  ladies, — and  nothing  so  wheedles 

The  creatures  abroad  as  your  golden-eyed  needles. 

A  neat  pocket  Horace,  by  which  folks  are  cozen'd, 

To  think  one  knows  Latin,  when — one,  perhaps,  doesn't. 

With  some  little  book  about  heathen  mythology, 

Just  large  enough  to  refresh  one's  theology ; 

Nothing  on  earth  being  half  such  a  bore  as 

Not  knowing  the  difference  'twixt  Virgins  and  Floras. 

Once  more,  love,  farewell,  best  regards  to  the  girls, 

And  mind  you  beware  of  damp  feet  and  new  Earls. 

HENRY. 
Thomas  Moore, 

cccxcir. 
A  LETTER  OF  ADVICE. 

From  Miss  Medora  Trevilian,  at  Padua,  to  Miss  Araminta 
Vavasour  in  London. 

You  tell  me  you're  promised  a  lover, 

My  own  Araminta,  next  week; 
Why  cannot  my  fancy  discover 

The  hue  of  his  coat  and  his  cheek  ? 
Alas  !  if  he  look  like  another, 

A  vicar,  a  banker,  a  beau, 
Be  deaf  to  your  father  and  mother, 

My  own  Araminta,  say  "  No  I  " 


292  LYRA  ELEGANT/ARUM. 

Miss  Lane,  at  her  Temple  of  Fashion, 

Taught  us  both  how  to  sing  and  to  speak, 
And  we  loved  one  another  with  passion, 

Before  we  had  been  there  a  week : 
You  gave  me  a  ring  for  a  token  ; 

I  wear  it  wherever  I  go  ; 
I  gave  you  a  chain, — is  it  broken  ? 

My  own  Araminta,  say  "  No  !  " 

O  think  of  our  favourite  cottage, 

And  think  of  our  dear  Lai  I  a  Rookh  ! 
How  we  shared  with  the  milkmaids  their  pottage, 

And  drank  of  the  stream  from  the  brook ; 
How  fondly  our  loving  lips  falter'd 

"  What  further  can  grandeur  bestow  ?  " 
My  heart  is  the  same  ;  —is  yours  alter'd  ? 

My  own  Araminta,  say  "  No ! " 

Remember  the  thrilling  romances 

We  read  on  the  bank  in  the  glen ; 
Remember  the  suitors  our  fancies 

Would  picture  for  both  of  us  then. 
They  wore  the  red  cross  on  their  shoulder, 

They  had  vanquish'd  and  pardon 'd  their  foe — 
Sweet  friend,  are  you  wiser  or  colder  ? 

My  own  Araminta,  say  "  No !  " 

You  know,  when  Lord  Rigmarole's  carriage 

Drove  off  with  your  cousin  Justine, 
You  wept,  dearest  girl,  at  the  marriage, 

And  whisper'd  "  How  base  she  has  been  1 " 
You  said  you  were  sure  it  would  kill  you, 

If  ever  your  husband  look'd  so ; 
And  you  will  not  apostatize, — will  you  ? 

My  own  Araminta,  say  "  No  ! " 

When  I  heard  I  was  going  abroad,  love, 

I  thought  I  was  going  to  die ; 
We  walk'd  arm  in  arm  to  the  road,  love, 

We  look'd  arm  in  arm  to  the  sky  ; 
And  I  said  "  when  a  foreign  postillion 

Has  hurried  me  off  to  the  Po, 
Forget  not  Medora  Trevilian  : 

My  own  Araminta,  say  "  No  1 " 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

We  parted  !  but  sympathy's  fetters 

Reach  far  over  valley  and  hill  ; 
I  muse  o'er  your  exquisite  letters, 

And  feel  that  your  heart  is  mine  still ; 
And  he  who  would  share  it  with  me,  love,— 

The  richest  of  treasures  below, — 
If  he's  not  what  Orlando  should  be,  love, 

My  own  Araminta,  say  "  No  ! " 

If  he  wears  a  top-boot  in  his  wooing, 

If  he  comes  to  you  riding  a  cob, 
If  he  talks  of  his  baking  or  brewing, 

If  he  puts  up  his  feet  on  the  hob, 
If  he  ever  drinks  port  after  dinner, 

If  his  brow  or  his  breeding  is  low, 
If  he  calls  himself  "  Thompson  "  or  "  Skinner," 

My  own  Araminta,  say  "  No  I  " 

If  he  studies  the  news  in  the  papers 

While  you  are  preparing  the  tea, 
If  he  talks  of  the  damps  or  the  vapours 

While  moonlight  lies  soft  on  the  sea, 
If  he's  sleepy,  while  you  are  capricious, 

If  he  has  not  a  musical  "Oh  !  " 
If  he  does  not  call  Werther  delicious, — 

My  own  Araminta,  say  "  No  !  " 

If  he  ever  sets  foot  in  the  City 

Among  the  stockbrokers  and  Jews, 
If  he  has  not  a  heart  full  of  pity, 

If  he  don't  stand  six  feet  in  his  shoes, 
If  his  lips  are  not  redder  than  roses, 

If  his  hands  are  not  whiter  than  snow, 
If  he  has  not  the  model  of  noses, — 

My  own  Araminta,  say  "  No  ! " 

If  he  speaks  of  a  tax  or  a  duty, 

If  he  does  not  look  grand  on  his  knees, 
If  he's  blind  to  a  landscape  of  beauty, 

Hills,  valleys,  rocks,  waters,  and  trees, 
If  he  dotes  not  on  desolate  towers, 

If  he  likes  not  to  hear  the  blasts  blow, 
If  he  knows  not  the  language  of  flowers, — 

My  own  Araminta,  say  "  No  I  " 


293 


294  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

He  must  walk — like  a  god  of  old  story 

Come  down  from  the  home  of  his  rest  , 
He  must  smile — like  the  sun  in  his  glory 

On  the  buds  he  loves  ever  the  best; 
And  oh !  from  its  ivory  portal 

Like  music  his  soft  speech  must  flow ! — 
If  he  speak,  smile,  or  walk  like  a  mortal, 

My  own  Araminta,  say  "  No  !  " 

Don't  listen  to  tales  of  his  bounty, 

Don't  hear  what  they  say  of  his  birth, 
Don't  look  at  his  seat  in  the  county, 

Don't  calculate  what  he  is  worth ; 
But  give  him  a  theme  to  write  verse  on, 

And  see  if  he  turns  out  his  toe ; 
If  he's  only  an  excellent  person, — 

My  own  Araminta,  say  "  No !  " 

Winthrop  M.  Praed. 


CCCXCIII. 
THE  POPLAR. 

AY,  here  stands  the  Poplar,  so  tall  and  so  stately, 
On  whose  tender  rind — 'twas  a  little  one  then — 

We  carved  her  initials ;  though  not  very  lately, 
We  think  in  the  year  eighteen  hundred  and  ten. 

Yes,  here  is  the  G  which  proclaim'd  Georgiana ; 

Our  heart's  empress  then  ;  see,  'tis  grown  all  askew  ; 
And  it's  not  without  grief  we  perforce  entertain  a 

Conviction  it  now  looks  much  more  like  a  Q. 

This  should  be  the  great  D,  too,  that  once  stood  for  Dobbin, 
Her  loved  patronymic — Ah  !  can  it  be  so  ? 

Its  once  fair  proportions,  time,  too,  has  been  robbing 
A  D  ?  we'll  be  Deed  if  it  isn't  an  O  ! 

Alas  I  how  the  soul  sentimental  it  vexes, 

That  thus  on  our  labours  stern  Chronos  should  frown  ; 
Should  change  our  soft  liquids  to  izzards  and  Xes, 

And  turn  true-love's  alphabet  all  upside  down ! 

Richard  H.  Bar  ham. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  395 


CCCXCIV. 

OUR  BALL. 

YOU'LL  come  to  our  Ball ; — since  we  parted, 

I've  thought  of  you  more  than  I'll  say  ; 
Indeed,  I  was  half  broken-hearted 

For  a  week,  when  they  took  you  away. 
Fond  fancy  brought  back  to  my  slumbers 

Our  walks  on  the  Ness  and  the  Den, 
And  echo'd  the  musical  numbers 

Which  you  used  to  sing  to  me  then. 
I  know  the  romance,  since  it's  over, 

'Twere  idle,  or  worse,  to  recall ; 
I  know  you're  a  terrible  rover; 

But  Clarence,  you'll  come  to  our  Ball  1 

It's  only  a  year,  since,  at  College, 

You  put  on  your  cap  and  your  gown  ; 
But,  Clarence,  you're  grown  out  of  knowledge, 

And  changed  from  the  spur  to  the  crown  : 
The  voice  that  was  best  when  it  falter'd 

Is  fuller  and  firmer  in  tone, 
And  the  smile  that  should  never  have  alter'd — 

Dear  Clarence — it  is  not  your  own: 
Your  cravat  is  badly  selected  ; 

Your  coat  don't  become  you  at  all ; 
And  why  is  your  hair  so  neglected  ? 

You  must  have  it  curl'd  for  our  Ball 

I've  often  been  out  upon  Haldon 

To  look  for  a  covey  with  pup  ; 
I've  often  been  over  to  Shaldon, 

To  see  how  your  boat  is  laid  up: 
In  spite  of  the  terrors  of  Aunty, 

I've  ridden  the  filly  you  broke  ; 
And  I've  studied  your  sweet  little  Dante 

In  the  shade  of  your  favourite  oak : 
When  I  sat  in  July  to  Sir  Lawrence, 

I  sat  in  your  love  of  a  shawl  ; 
And  I'll  wear  what  you  brought  me  from  Florence, 

Perhaps,  if  you'll  come  to  our  Ball. 


296  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

You'll  find  us  all  changed  since  you  vanish'd  ; 

We've  set  up  a  National  School ; 
And  waltzing  is  utterly  banish'd, 

And  Ellen  has  married  a  fool  ; 
The  Major  is  going  to  travel, 

Miss  Hyacinth  threatens  a  rout, 
The  walk  is  laid  down  with  fresh  gravel, 

Papa  is  laid  up  with  the  gout  ; 
And  Jane  has  gone  on  with  her  easels, 

And  Anne  has  gone  off  with  Sir  Paul ; 
And  Fanny  is  sick  with  the  measles, — 

And  I'll  tell  you  the  rest  at  the  Ball. 

You'll  meet  all  your  Beauties  ;  the  Lily, 

And  the  Fairy  of  Willowbrook  Farm, 
And  Lucy,  who  made  me  so  silly 

At  Dawlish,  by  taking  your  arm  ; 
Miss  Manners,  who  always  abused  you 

For  talking  so  much  about  Hock, 
And  her  sister,  who  often  amused  you 

By  raving  of  rebels  and  Rock ; 
And  something  which  surely  would  answer, 

An  heiress  quite  fresh  from  Bengal ; 
So,  though  you  were  seldom  a  dancer, 

You'll  dance,  just  for  once,  at  our  Ball. 

But  out  on  the  World  !  from  the  flowers 

It  shuts  out  the  sunshine  of  truth : 
It  blights  the  green  leaves  in  the  bowers, 

It  makes  an  old  age  of  our  youth  ; 
And  the  flow  of  our  feeling,  once  in  it, 

Like  a  streamlet  beginning  to  freeze, 
Though  it  cannot  turn  ice  in  a  minute, 

Grows  harder  by  sudden  degrees  : 
Time  treads  o'er  the  graves  of  affection  ; 

Sweet  honey  is  turn'd  into  gall  ; 
Perhaps  you  have  no  recollection 

That  ever  you  danced  at  our  Ball ! 

You  once  could  be  pleased  with  our  ballads,— 

To-day  you  have  critical  ears  ; 
You  once  could  be  charm'd  with  our  salads — 

Alas !  you've  been  dining  with  Peers ; 
You  trifled  and  flirted  with  many, — 

You've  forgotten  the  when  and  the  how ; 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARVM. 


297 


There  was  one  you  liked  better  than  any, — 

Perhaps  you've  forgotten  her  now. 
But  of  those  you  remember  most  newly, 

Of  those  who  delight  or  enthrall, 
None  love  you  a  quarter  so  truly 

As  some  you  will  find  at  our  Ball. 

They  tell  me  you've  many  who  flatter, 

Because  of  your  wit  and  your  song  : 
They  tell  me — and  what  does  it  matter  ? — 

You  like  to  be  praised  by  the  throng: 
They  tell  me  you're  shadow'd  with  laurel : 

They  tell  me  you're  loved  by  a  Blue  : 
They  tell  me  you're  sadly  immoral — 

Dear  Clarence,  that  cannot  be  true  ! 
But  to  me,  you  are  still  what  I  found  you, 

Before  you  grew  clever  and  tall ; 
And  you'll  think  of  the  spell  that  once  bound  you; 

And  you'll  come — won't  you  come  ? — to  our  Ball ! 

Wintkrop  M.  Praed. 


cccxcv. 
BECAUSE. 

SWEET  Nea  ! — for  your  lovely  sake 

I  weave  these  rambling  numbers, 
Because  I've  lain  an  hour  awake, 

And  can't  compose  my  slumbers; 
Because  your  beauty's  gentle  light 

Is  round  my  pillow  beaming, 
And  flings,  I  know  not  whv,  to-night, 

Some  witchery  o'er  my  dreaming  1 

Because  we've  pa,ss'd  some  joyous  days, 

And  danced  some  merry  dances ; 
Because  we  love  old  Beaumont's  plays, 

And  old  Froissart's  romances! 
Because  whene'er  I  hear  your  words 

Some  pleasant  feeling  lingers  ; 
Because  I  think  your  heart  has  cords 

That  vibrate  to  your  fingers. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

Because  you've  got  those  long,  soft  curls, 

I've  sworn  should  deck  my  goddess  ; 
Because  you're  not,  like  other  girls, 

All  bustle,  blush,  and  boddice  ! 
Because  your  eyes  are  deep  and  blue, 

Your  fingers  long  and  rosy ; 
Because  a  little  child  and  you 

Would  make  one's  home  so  cozy  ! 

Because  your  little  tiny  nose 

Turns  up  so  pert  and  funny ; 
Because  I  know  you  choose  your  beaux 

More  for  their  mirth  than  money ; 
Because  I  think  you'd  rather  twirl 

A  waltz,  with  me  to  guide  you, 
Than  talk  small  nonsense  with  an  earl, 

And  a  coronet  beside  you  ! 

Because  you  don't  object  to  walk, 

And  are  not  given  to  fainting  ; 
Because  you  have  not  learnt  to  talk 

Of  flowers,  and  Poonah-painting ; 
Because  I  think  you'd  scarce  refuse 

To  sew  one  on  a  button  ; 
Because  I  know  you'd  sometimes  choose 

To  dine  on  simple  mutton  1 

Because  I  think  I'm  just  so  weak 

As,  some  of  those  fine  morrows, 
To  ask  you  if  you'll  let  me  speak 

My  story — and  my  sorrows ; 
Because  the  rest's  a  simple  thing, 

A  matter  quickly  over 
A  church — a  priest — a  sigh — a  ring — 

And  a  chaise  and  four  to  Dover. 

Edward  Fitzgerald. 

CCCXCVI. 

REASON,  FOLLY,  AND  BEAUTY. 

REASON,  and  Folly,  and  Beauty,  they  say, 
Went  on  a  party  of  pleasure  one  day  : 

Folly  play'd 

Around  the  maid, 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

The  bells  of  his  cap  rang  merrily  out ; 

While  Reason  took 

To  this  sermon-book — 

O  !  which  was  the  pleasanter  no  one  need  doubt, 
Which  was  the  pleasanter  no  one  need  doubt. 

Beauty,  who  likes  to  be  thought  very  sage, 
Turn'd  for  a  moment  to  Reason's  dull  page, 

Till  Folly  said, 

"  Look  here,  sweet  maid  !  " — 
The  sight  of  his  cap  brought  her  back  to  herself, 

While  Reason  read 

His  leaves  of  lead, 

With  no  one  to  mind  him,  poor  sensible  elf ! 
No, — no  one  to  mind  him,  poor  sensible  elf ! 

Then  Reason  grew  jealous  of  Folly's  gay  cap ; 
Had  he  that  on,  he  her  heart  might  entrap — 

"  There  it  is," 

Quoth  Folly,  "  old  quiz !  " 
(Folly  was  always  good-natured,  'tis  said,) 

"  Under  the  sun 

There's  no  such  fun, 

As  Reason  with  my  cap  and  bells  on  his  head, 
Reason  with  my  cap  and  bells  on  his  head  !  " 

But  Reason  the  head-dress  so  awkwardly  wore. 
That  Beauty  now  liked  him  still  less  than  before : 

While  Folly  took 

Old  Reason's  book, 
And  twisted  the  leaves  in  a  cap  of  such  ton, 

That  Beauty  vow'd 

(Tho'  not  aloud) 

She  liked  him  still  better  in  that  than  his  own, 
Yes, — liked  him  still  better  in  that  than  his  own. 

Thomas  Moore. 

CCCXCVII. 

CHILDHOOD  AND  His  VISITORS. 

ONCE  on  a  time,  when  sunny  May 
Was  kissing  up  the  April  showers, 

I  saw  fair  Childhood  hard  at  play 
Upon  a  bank  of  blushing  flowers : 


299 


300 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

Happy — he  knew  not  whence  or  how, — 
And  smiling, — who  could  choose  but  love  him  ? 

For  not  more  glad  than  Childhood's  brow, 
Was  the  blue  heaven  that  beam'd  above  him. 

Old  Time,  in  most  appalling  wrath, 

That  valley's  green  repose  invaded  ; 
The  brooks  grew  dry  upon  his  path, 

The  birds  were  mute,  the  lilies  faded. 
But  Time  so  swiftly  wing'd  his  flight, 

In  haste  a  Grecian  tomb  to  batter, 
That  Childhood  watch'd  his  paper  kite, 

And  knew  just  nothing  of  the  matter. 

With  curling  lip  and  glancing  eye 

Guilt  gazed  upon  the  scene  a  minute  ; 
But  Childhood's  glance  of  purity 

Had  such  a  holy  spell  within  it, 
That  the  dark  demon  to  the  air 

Spread  forth  again  his  baffled  pinion, 
And  hid  his  envy  and  despair, 

Self-tortured,  in  his  own  dominion. 

Then  stepp'd  a  gloomy  phantom  up, 

Pale,  cypress-crown'd,  Night's  awful  daughter, 
And  proffer'd  him  a  fearful  cup 

Full  to  the  brim  of  bitter  water  : 
Poor  Childhood  bade  her  tell  her  name ; 

And  when  the  beldame  mutter' d — "  Sorrow," 
He  said, — "  Don't  interrupt  my  game  ; 

I'll  taste  it,  if  I  must,  to-morrow." 

The  Muse  of  Pindus  thither  came, 

And  woo'd  him  with  the  softest  numbers 
That  ever  scatter'd  wealth  and  fame 

Upon  a  youthful  poet's  slumbers ; 
Tho'  sweet  the  music  of  the  lay, 

To  Childhood  it  was  all  a  riddle, 
And  "  Oh,"  he  cried,  "  do  send  away 

That  noisy  woman  with  the  fiddle  1 " 

Then  Wisdom  stole  his  bat  and  ball, 

And  taught  him,  with  most  sage  endeavour, 

Why  bubbles  rise  and  acorns  fall, 
And  why  no  toy  may  last  forever. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  30 1 

She  talk'd  of  all  the  wondrous  laws 

Which  Nature's  open  book  discloses, 
And  Childhood,  ere  she  made  a  pause, 

Was  fast  asleep  among  the  roses. 

Sleep  on,  sleep  on !     Oh  !     Manhood's  dreams 

Are  all  of  earthly  pain  or  pleasure, 
Of  Glory's  toils,  Ambition's  schemes, 

Of  cherish'd  love,  or  hoarded  treasure: 
But  to  the  couch  where  Childhood  lies 

A  more  delicious  trance  is  given. 
Lit  up  by  rays  from  seraph  eyes, 

And  glimpses  of  remember'd  Heaven 

Winthrop  M.  Praed, 

CCCXCVIII. 

I'D  be  a  Butterfly  born  in  a  bower, 

Where  roses  and  lilies  and  violets  meet , 
Roving  for  ever  from  flower  to  flower, 

And  kissing  all  buds  that  are  pretty  and  sweet ! 
I'd  never  languish  for  wealth,  or  for  power ; 

I'd  never  sigh  to  see  slaves  at  my  feet  : 
I'd  be  a  Butterfly  born  in  a  bower, 

Kissing  all  buds  that  are  pretty  and  sweet. 

O  could  I  pilfer  the  wand  of  a  fairy, 

I'd  have  a  pair  of  those  beautiful  wings ; 

Their  summer  day's  ramble  is  sportive  and  airy, 
They  sleep  in  a  rose  when  the  nightingale  sings. 

Those  who  have  wealth  must  be  watchful  and  wary, 
Power,  alas !  nought  but  misery  brings ! 

I'd  be  a  Butterfly,  sportive  and  airy, 

Rock'd  in  a  rose  when  the  nightingale  sings  ? 

What,  though  you  tell  me  each  gay  little  rover 

Shrinks  from  the  breath  of  the  first  autumn  day  ! 
Surely  't  is  better  when  summer  is  over 

To  die  when  all  fair  things  are  fading  away. 
Some  in  life's  winter  may  toil  to  discover 

Means  of  procuring  a  weary  delay — 
I'd  be  a  Butterfly ;  living,  a  rover, 

Dying  when  fair  things  are  fading  away ! 

Thomas  H.  Bayly. 


302 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 
CCCXCIX. 

CHILDREN  PLAYING  IN  A  CHURCHYARD. 

CHILDREN,  keep  up  that  harmless  play, 
Your  kindred  angels  plainly  say. 
By  God's  authority,  ye  may. 

Be  prompt  His  holy  word  to  hear, 
It  teaches  you  to  banish  fear  ; 
The  lesson  lies  on  all  sides  near. 

Ten  summers  hence  the  sprightliest  lad 
In  Nature's  face  will  look  more  sad, 
And  ask,  where  are  those  smiles  she  had. 

Ere  many  days  the  last  will  close, 

Play  on,  play  on  ;  for  then  (who  knows  ?) 

Ye  who  play  here  may  here  repose. 

Walter  S.  Landor. 

CCCC. 
MY  LITTLE  COUSINS. 

LAUGH  on,  fair  Cousins,  for  to  you 

All  life  is  joyous  yet ; 
Your  hearts  have  all  things  to  pursue, 

And  nothing  to  regret ; 
And  every  flower  to  you  is  fair  : 

And  every  month  is  May  : 
You've  not  been  introduced  to  Care, — 

Laugh  on,  laugh  on  to-day  ! 

Old  Time  will  fling  his  clouds  ere  long 

Upon  those  sunny  eyes  ; 
The  voice  whose  every  word  is  song 

Will  set  itself  to  sighs ; 
Your  quiet  slumbers, — hopes  and  fears 

Will  chase  their  rest  away : 
To-morrow  you'll  be  shedding  tears, — 

Laugh  on,  laugh  on  to-day ! 


LYRA  ELEGANT/ARUM. 

Oh  yes,  if  any  truth  is  found 

In  the  dull  schoolman's  theme, 
If  friendship  is  an  empty  sound, 

And  love  an  idle  dream, 
If  mirth,  youth's  playmate,  feels  fatigue 

Too  soon  on  life's  long  way, 
At  least  he'll  run  with  you  a  league  ; — 

Laugh  on,  laugh  on  to-day ! 

Perhaps  your  eyes  may  grow  more  bright 

As  childhood's  hues  depart ; 
You  may  be  lovelier  to  the  sight 

And  dearer  to  the  heart  ; 
You  may  be  sinless  still,  and  see 

This  earth  still  green  and  gay ; 
But  what  you  are  you  will  not  be  : 

Laugh  on,  laugh  on  to-day  ! 

O'er  me  have  many  winters  crept 

With  less  of  grief  than  joy; 
But  I  have  learn'd,  and  toil'd  and  wept; 

I  am  no  more  a  boy ! 
I've  never  had  the  gout,  'tis  true ; 

My  hair  is  hardly  grey  ; 
But  now  I  cannot  laugh  like  you  : 

Laugh  on,  laugh  on  to-day  1 

I  used  to  have  as  glad  a  face. 

As  shadowless  a  brow  : 
I  once  could  run  as  blithe  a  race 

As  you  are  running  now  ; 
But  never  mind  how  I  behave ! 

Don't  interrupt  your  play ; 
And  though  I  look  so  very  grave, 

Laugh  on,  laugh  on  to-day ! 

Winthrop  M.  Pratd. 

CCCCI. 
THE  EFFECTS  OF  AGE. 

YES  ;  I  write  verses  now  and  then, 
But  blunt  and  flaccid  is  my  pen, 
No  longer  talk'd  of  by  young  men 

As  rather  clever  ; 


303 


304  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

In  the  last  quarter  are  my  eyes, 
You  see  it  by  their  form  and  size  : 
Is  it  not  time  then  to  be  wise  ? 

Or  now  or  never. 

Fairest  that  ever  sprang  from  Eve  ! 
While  Time  allows  the  short  reprieve, 
Just  look  at  me  !  would  you  believe 

'Twas  once  a  lover? 

I  cannot  clear  the  five-bar  gate, 
But,  trying  first  its  timbers  state, 
Climb  stiffly  up,  take  breath,  and  wait 
To  trundle  over. 

Thro'  gallopade  I  cannot  swing 

The  entangling  blooms  of  Beauty's  spring  : 

I  cannot  say  the  tender  thing, 

Be  it  true  or  false, 

And  am  beginning  to  opine 
Those  girls  are  only  half-divine 
Whose  waists  you  wicked  boys  entwine 
In  giddy  waltz. 

I  fear  that  arm  above  that  shoulder, 
I  wish  them  wiser,  graver,  older, 
Sedater,  and  no  harm  if  colder, 

And  panting  less. 

Ah,  people  were  not  half  so  wild, 
In  former  days,  when,  starchly  mild, 
Upon  her  high-heel'd  Essex  smiled 

The  Brave  Queen  Bess. 

Walter  S.  Landor. 


ccccii. 
SCHOOL  AND  SCHOOLFELLOWS. 

TWELVE  years  ago  I  made  a  mock 
Of  filthy  trades  and  traffics  : 

I  wonder'd  what  they  meant  by  stock ; 
I  wrote  delightful  sapphics : 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

I  knew  the  streets  of  Rome  and  Troy, 
I  supp'd  with  Fates  and  Furies, — 


Twelve  years  ago  I  was  a  boy, 
A  happy  boy,  at  Drury's. 

Twelve  years  ago  ! — how  many  a  thought 

Of  faded  pains  and  pleasures 
Those  whisper'd  syllables  have  brought 

From  Memory's  hoarded  treasures ! 
The  fields,  the  farms,  the  bats,  the  books, 

The  glories  and  disgraces, 
The  voices  of  dear  friends,  the  looks 

Of  old  familiar  faces  ! 

Kind  Mater  smiles  again  to  me, 

As  bright  as  when  we  parted ; 
I  seem  again  the  frank,  the  free, 

Stout-limb'd,  and  simple-hearted  I 
Pursuing  every  idle  dream, 

And  shunning  every  warning ; 
With  no  hard  work  but  Bovney  stream, 

No  chill  except  Long  Morning  : 

Now  stopping  Harry  Vernon's  ball 

That  rattled  like  a  rocket ; 
Now  hearing  Wentworth's  "  Fourteen  all !  " 

And  striking  for  the  pocket ; 
Now  feasting  on  a  cheese  and  flitch,— 

Now  drinking  from  the  pewter  ; 
Now  leaping  over  Chalvey  ditch, 

Now  laughing  at  my  tutor. 

Where  are  my  friends  ?  I  am  alone  ; 

No  playmate  shares  my  beaker : 
Some  lie  beneath  the  Churchyard  stone, 

And  some — before  the  Speaker  ; 
And  some  compose  a  tragedy, 

And  some  compose  a  rondo; 
And  some  draw  swords  for  liberty. 

And  some  draw  pleas  for  John  Doe. 

Tom  Mill  was  used  to  blacken  eyes 

Without  the  fear  of  sessions  ; 
Charles  Medlar  loathed  false  quantities, 

As  much  as  false  professions; 


306  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

Now  Mill  keeps  order  in  the  land, 

A  magistrate  pedantic ; 
And  Medlar's  feet  repose  unscann'd 

Beneath  the  wide  Atlantic. 

Wild  Nick,  whose  oaths  made  such  a  din, 

Does  Dr.  Martext's  duty  ; 
And  Mullion,  with  that  monstrous  chin, 

Is  married  to  a  Beauty  ; 
And  Darrell  studies,  week  by  week, 

His  Mant,  and  not  his  Manton ; 
And  Ball,  who  was  but  poor  at  Greek, 

Is  very  rich  at  Canton. 

And  I  am  eight-and-twenty  now  ; — 

The  world's  cold  chains  have  bound  me  ; 
And  darker  shades  are  on  my  brow, 

And  sadder  scenes  around  me  : 
In  Parliament  I  fill  my  seat, 

With  many  other  noodles ; 
And  lay  my  head  in  Jermyn  Street, 

And  sip  my  hock  at  Boodle's. 

But  often,  when  the  cares  of  life 

Have  set  my  temples  aching. 
When  visions  haunt  me  of  a  wife, 

When  duns  await  my  waking, 
When  Lady  Jane  is  in  a  pet, 

Or  Hobby  in  a  hurry, 
When  Captain  Hazard  wins  a  bet, 

Or  Beaulieu  spoils  a  curry, — 

For  hours  and  hours  I  think  and  talk 

Of  each  remembered  hobby  ; 
I  long  to  lounge  in  Poet's  Walk, 

To  shiver  in  the  lobby ; 
I  wish  that  I  could  run  away 

From  House,  and  Court,  and  Levee, 
Where  bearded  men  appear  to-day 

Just  Eton  boys  grown  heavy, — 

That  I  could  bask  in  childhood's  sun 
And  dance  o'er  childhood's  roses, 

And  find  huge  wealth  in  one  pound  one, 
Vast  wit  in  broken  noses, 


307 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

And  play  Sir  Giles  at  Datchet  Lane, 
And  call  the  milk-maids  Houris, — 

That  I  could  be  a  boy  again, — 
A  happy  boy, — at  Drury's. 

Winthrop  M.  Praed. 

CCCCIII. 
ODE  ON  A  DISTANT  PROSPECT  OF  CLAPHAM  ACADEMY. 

AH  me  !  those  old  familiar  bounds  I 
That  classic  house,  those  classic  grounds 

My  pensive  thought  recalls  1 
What  tender  urchins  now  confine, 
What  little  captives  now  repine, 

Within  yon  irksome  walls  ? 

Ay,  that's  the  very  house  !    I  know 
Its  ugly  windows,  ten  a-row ! 

Its  chimneys  in  the  rear  I 
And  there's  the  iron  rod  so  high, 
That  drew  the  thunder  from  the  sky 

And  turn'd  our  table-beer  ! 

There  I  was  birch'd !  there  I  was  bred  1 
There  like  a  little  Adam  fed 

From  Learning's  woeful  tree  I 
The  weary  tasks  I  used  to  con ! — 
The  hopeless  leaves  I  wept  upon  ! — 

Most  fruitless  leaves  to  me  ! — 

The  summon'd  class ! — the  awful  bow  ! — 
I  wonder  who  is  master  now 

And  wholesome  anguish  sheds ! 
How  many  ushers  now  employs, 
How  many  maids  to  see  the  boys 

Have  nothing  in  their  heads ! 

And  Mrs.  S  *  *  *  ?— Doth  she  abet 
(Like  Pallas  in  the  parlour)  yet 

Some  favour'd  two  or  three, — 
The  little  Crichtons  of  the  hour, 
Her  muffin-medals  that  devour, 

And  swill  her  prize — bohea  ? 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

Ay,  there's  the  playground !  there's  the  lime, 
Beneath  whose  shade  in  summer's  prime 

So  wildly  I  have  read  ! — 
Who  sits  there  now,  and  skims  the  cream 
Of  young  Romance,  and  weaves  a  dream 

Of  Love  and  Cottage-bread  ? 

Who  struts  the  Randall  of  the  walk 
Who  models  tiny  heads  in  chalk  ? 

Who  scoops  the  light  canoe? 
What  early  genius  buds  apace  ? 
Where's  Poynter  ?  Harris  ?  Bowers  ?  Chase  ? 

Hal  Baylis  ?  blithe  Carew  ? 

Alack !  they're  gone — a  thousand  ways  ! 
And  some  are  serving  in  "  the  Greys," 

And  some  have  perished  young  ! — 
Jack  Harris  weds  his  second  wife  ; 
Hal  Baylis  drives  the  wane  of  life  ; 

And  blithe  Carew — is  hung ! 

Grave  Bowers  teaches  ABC 
To  savages  at  Owhyee  ; 

Poor  Chase  is  with  the  worms! — 
All,  all  are  gone — the  olden  breed  ! — 
New  crops  of  mushroom  boys  succeed, 

"  And  push  us  from  our  forms  !  " 

Lo  !  where  they  scramble  forth,  and  shout, 
And  leap,  and  skip,  and  mob  about, 

At  play  where  we  have  play'd ! 
Some  hop,  some  run,  (some  fall,)  some  twine 
Their  crony  arms  ;  some  in  the  shine, — 

And  some  are  in  the  shade  1 

Lo  there  what  mix'd  conditions  run ! 
The  orphan  lad  ;  the  widow's  son ; 

And  Fortune's  favour'd  care — 
The  wealthy-born,  for  whom  she  hath 
Mac-Adamised  the  future  path — 

The  Nabob's  pamper'd  heir  ! 

Some  brightly  starr'd — some  evil  born, — 
For  honour  some,  and  some  for  scorn, — 
For  fair,  or  foul  renown  I 


LYRA   ELEGANTIARUM. 

Good,  bad,  indifFrent  —  none  may  lack  ! 
Look,  here's  a  White,  and  there''s  a  Black  1 
And  there's  a  Creole  brown  1 

Some  laugh  and  sing,  some  mope  and  weep, 
And  wish  their  '  frugal  sires  would  keep 

Their  only  sons  at  home  ;  '  — 
Some  tease  the  future  tense,  and  plan 
The  full-grown  doings  of  the  man, 

And  pant  for  years  to  come  ! 

A  foolish  wish  !     There's  one  at  hoop; 
And  four  at  fives  !  and  five  who  stoop 

The  marble  taw  to  speed  ! 
And  one  that  curvets  in  and  out, 
Reining  his  fellow  Cob  about,  — 

Would  I  were  in  his  stead  ! 

Yet  he  would  gladly  halt  and  drop 
That  boyish  harness  off,  to  swop 

With  this  world's  heavy  van  — 
To  toil,  to  tug.     O  little  fool  ! 
Whilst  thou  canst  be  a  horse  at  school, 

To  wish  to  be  a  man  ! 

Perchance  thou  deem'st  it  were  a  thing 
To  wear  a  crown,  —  to  be  a  king  ! 

And  sleep  on  regal  down  ! 
Alas  !  thou  know'st  not  kingly  cares  ; 
Far  happier  is  thy  head  that  wears 

That  hat  without  a  crown  ! 

And  dost  thou  think  that  years  acquire 
New  added  joys  ?     Dost  think  thy  sire 

More  happy  than  his  son  ? 
That  manhood's  mirth  ?  —  Oh,  go  thy  ways 
To  Drury-lane  when 


309 


And  see  how  forced  our  fun  ! 

Thy  taws  are  brave  !  —  thy  tops  are  rare  !  — 
Our  tops  are  spun  with  coils  of  care, 

Our  dumps  are  no  delight  !  — 
The  Elgin  marbles  are  but  tame, 
And  'tis  at  best  a  sorry  game 

To  fly  the  Muse's  kite  ! 


3io 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

Our  hearts  are  dough,  our  heels  are  lead, 
Our  topmost  joys  fall  dull  and  dead 

Like  balls  with  no  rebound  1 
And  often  with  a  faded  eye 
We  look  behind,  and  send  a  sigh 

Towards  that  merry  ground  ! 

Then  be  contented.     Thou  hast  got 
The  most  of  heaven  in  thy  young  lot ; 

There's  sky-blue  in  thy  cup  ! 
Thou'lt  find  thy  Manhood  all  too  fast — 
Soon  come,  soon  gone  !  and  Age  at  last 

A  sorry  breaking-up ! 

Thomas  Hood. 


cccciv. 

LORD  HARRY  has  written  a  novel, 

A  story  of  elegant  life ; 
No  stuff  about  love  in  a  hovel, 

No  sketch  of  a  commoner's  wife : 
No  trash,  such  as  pathos  and  passion, 

Fine  feelings,  expression  and  wit ; 
But  all  about  people  of  fashion, 

Come  look  at  his  caps — how  they  fit  ? 

O,  Radcliffe  !  thou  once  wert  the  charmer 

Of  girls  who  sat  reading  all  night; 
Thy  heroes  were  striplings  in  armour, 

Thy  heroines  damsels  in  white. 
But  past  are  thy  terrible  touches, 

Our  lips  in  derision  we  curl, 
Unless  we  are  told  how  a  Duchess, 

Conversed  with  her  cousin  the  Earl. 

We  now  have  each  dialogue  quite  full 

Of  titles — "  I  give  you  my  word. 
My  lady,  you're  looking  delightful." 

"  O,  dear,  do  you  think  so,  my  lord  !  " 
"  You've  heard  of  the  marquis's  marriage, 

The  bride  with  her  jewels  new  set, 
Four  horses,  new  travelling  carriage, 

And  deje&ner  &  la  fourchette" 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

Haul  Ton  finds  her  privacy  broken, 

We  trace  all  her  ins  and  her  outs; 
The  very  small  talk  that  is  spoken 

By  very  great  people  at  routs, 
At  Tenby  Miss  Jinks  asks  the  loan  of 

The  book  from  the  innkeeper's  wife, 
And  reads  till  she  dreams  she  is  one  of 

The  leaders  of  elegant  life. 

Thomas  H.  Bayly. 


To  MINERVA. 
From  the  Greek. 

MY  temples  throb,  my  pulses  boil, 

I'm  sick  of  Song,  and  Ode,  and  Ballad — 

So  Thyrsis,  take  the  midnight  oil, 
And  pour  it  on  a  lobster  salad. 

My  brain  is  dull,  my  sight  is  foul, 

I  cannot  write  a  verse,  or  read, — 
Then  Pallas  take  away  thine  Owl, 

And  let  us  have  a  Lark  instead. 

Thomas  Hood. 

ccccvi. 

A  LOVE  SONG. 
In  the  Modern  Taste.     1733. 

FLUTTERING  spread  thy  purple  pinions, 
Gentle  Cupid,  o'er  my  heart  ; 
I  a  slave  in  thy  dominions ; 
Nature  must  give  way  to  art. 

Mild  Arcadians,  ever  blooming, 
Nightly  nodding  o'er  your  flocks, 
See  my  weary  days  consuming 
All  beneath  yon  flowery  rocks. 

Thus  the  Cyprian  goddess  weeping 
Mourn'd  Adonis,  darling  youth  : 
Him  the  boar,  in  silence  creeping 
Gor'd  with  unrelenting  tooth. 


3I2 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

Cynthia,  tune  harmonious  numbers ; 
Fair  Discretion,  string  the  lyre  ! 
Soothe  my  ever-waking  slumbers ; 
Bright  Apollo,  lend  thy  choir. 

Gloomy  Pluto,  king  of  terrors, 
Arm'd  in  adamantine  chains, 
Lead  me  to  the  crystal  mirrors 
Watering  soft  Elysian  plains. 

Mournful  cypress,  verdant  willow, 
Gilding  my  Aurelia's  brows, 
Morpheus,  hovering  o'er  my  pillow, 
Hear  me  pay  my  dying  vows, 

Melancholy  smooth  Maeander, 
Swiftly  purling  in  a  round, 
On  thy  margin  lovers  wander, 
With  thy  flowery  chaplets  crown'd. 

Thus  when  Philomela  drooping, 
Softly  seeks  her  silent  mate, 
See  the  bird  of  Juno  stooping ; 
Melody  resigns  to  fate. 

Jonathan  Swift. 

CCCCVII. 

THE  FLOWER. 

ALONE,  across  a  foreign  plain, 

The  Exile  slowly  wanders, 
And  on  his  Isle  beyond  the  main 

With  sadden'd  spirit  ponders  : 

This  lovely  Isle  beyond  the  sea, 
With  all  its  household  treasures ; 

Its  cottage  homes,  its  merry  birds, 
And  all  its  rural  pleasures  : 

Its  leafy  woods,  its  shady  vales, 
Its  moors,  and  purple  heather  ; 

Its  verdant  fields  bedeck'd  with  stars 
His  childhood  loved  to  gather: 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  313 

When  lo  !  he  starts,  with  glad  surprise, 

Home-joys  come  rushing  o'er  him, 
For  "  modest,  wee,  and  crimson-tipp'd," 

He  spies  the  flower  before  him  I 

With  eager  haste  he  stoops  him  down, 

His  eyes  with  moisture  hazy, 
And  as  he  plucks  the  simple  bloom, 

He  murmurs,  "  Lawk-a-daisy !  " 

Thomas  Hood. 


CCCCVIII. 

To  A  FISH  OF  THE  BROOKE. 

WHY  flyest  thou  away  with  fear  ? 
Trust  me  there's  nought  of  danger  near, 

I  have  no  wicked  hooke 
All  cover'd  with  a  snaring  bait, 
Alas,  to  tempt  thee  to  thy  fate, 

And  dragge  thee  from  the  brooke. 

0  harmless  tenant  of  the  flood, 

1  do  not  wish  to  spill  thy  blood, 

For  Nature  unto  thee 
Perchance  hath  given  a  tender  wife, 
And  children  dear,  to  charm  thy  life, 

As  she  hath  done  for  me. 

Enjoy  thy  stream,  O  harmless  fish; 
And  when  an  angler  for  his  dish, 

Through  gluttony's  vile  sin, 
Attempts,  a  wretch,  to  pull  thee  out, 
God  give  thee  strength,  O  gentle  trout, 

To  pull  the  rafkall  in  ! 

Dr.  John  Wolcot. 


314  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

CCCCIX. 

SONG  BY  ROGERO. 

WHENE'ER  with  haggard  eyes  I  view 

This  dungeon,  that  I'm  rotting  in, 
I  think  of  those  companions  true 
Who  studied  with  me  in  the  U- 
-niversity  of  Gottingen — 
-niversity  of  Gottingen. 

( Weeps,  and  pulls  out  a  blue  'kerchife,  with  which  he 
wipes  his  eyes;  gazing  tenderly  at  it,  he  proceeds.) 

Sweet  'kerchief  check' d  with  heavenly  blue, 

Which  once  my  love  sat  knotting  in, 
Alas,  Matilda  then  was  true, 
At  least  I  thought  so  at  the  U- 

-niversity  of  Gottingen — 

-niversity  of  Gottingen. 

(At  the  repetition  of  this  line   Rogero  clanks  his  chains 
iu  cadence.). 

Barbs  !  barbs  !  alas  !  how  swift  ye  flew, 

Her  neat  post-waggon  trotting  in  1 
Ye  bore  Matilda  from  my  view; 
Forlorn  I  languish'd  at  the  U- 

-niversity  of  Gottingen — 

-niversity  of  Gottingen. 

This  faded  form  !  this  pallid  hue  ! 

This  blood  my  veins  is  clotting  in, 
My  years  are  many — they  were  few 
When  first  I  enter'd  at  the  U- 
-niversity  of  Gottingen — 
-niversity  of  Gottingen. 

There  first  for  thee  my  passion  grew 

Sweet !  sweet  Matilda  Pqttingen  1 
Thou  wast  the  daughter  of  my  tu- 
-tor,  Law  Professor  at  the  U- 

-niversity  of  Gottingen — 

-niversity  of  Gottingen, 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 


3'5 


Sun,  moor,  and  thou  vain  world,  adieu, 

That  kings  and  priests  are  plotting  in ; 
Here  doom'd  to  starve  on  water-gru- 
-el,  never  shall  I  see  the  U- 

-niversity  of  Gottingen — 
-niversity  of  Gottingen ! 

(During  the  last  stanza  ROGERO  dashes  his  head  re- 
peatedly against  the  walls  of  his  prison;  and, 
finally,  so  hard  as  to  produce  a  visible  contusion. 
He  then  throws  himself  on  the  floor  in  an  agony, 
The  curtain  drops — the  music  still  continuing  to 
play  till  it  is  wholly  fallen.') 

Anti-Jacobin. 


ccccx. 
THE  BURNING  OF  THE  LOVE  LETTER. 

No  morning  ever  seem'd  so  long ! — 
I  tried  to  read  with  all  my  might ! 
In  my  left  hand  "  My  Landlord's  Tales," 
And  threepence  ready  in  my  right. 

'Twas  twelve  at  last — my  heart  beat  high ! — 
The  Postman  rattled  at  the  door  !— 
And  just  upon  her  road  to  church, 
I  dropt  the  "  Bride  of  Lammermoor  1 " 

I  seized  the  note — I  flew  up  stairs — 
Flung  to  the  door,  and  lock'd  me  in — 
With  panting  haste  I  tore  the  seal — 
And  kiss'd  the  B.  in  Benjamin  ! 

'Twas  full  of  love — to  rhyme  with  dove — 
And  all  that  tender  sort  of  thing — 
Of  sweet  and  meet — and  heart  and  dart — 
But  not  a  word  about  a  ring  ! — 

In  doubt  I  cast  it  in  the  flame, 
And  stood  to  watch  the  latest  spark — 
And  saw  the  love  all  end  in  smoke — 
Without  a  Parson  and  a  Clerk  I 

Thomas  Hood. 


316  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

CCCCXI. 

THE  WATER  PERI'S  SONG. 

FAREWELL,  farewell  to  my  mother's  own  daughter, 
The  child  that  she  wet-nursed  is  lapp'd  in  the  wave ! 

The  Mussel-man  coming  to  fish  in  the  water, 
Adds  a  tear  to  the  flood  that  weeps  over  her  grave. 

This  sack  is  her  coffin,  this  water's  her  bier, 
This  greyish  Bath  cloak  is  her  funeral  pall, 

And,  stranger,  O  stranger  !  this  song  that  you  hear 
Is  her  epitaph,  elegy,  dirges  and  all  ! 

Farewell,  farewell  to  the  child  of  Al  Hassan, 

My  mother's  own  daughter — the  last  of  her  race — 

She's  a  corpse,  the  poor  body !  and  lies  in  this  basin, 
And  sleeps  in  the  water  that  washes  her  face. 

Thomas  Hood. 

ccccxn. 
"PLEASE  TO  RING  THE  BELLE." 

I'LL  tell  you  a  story  that's  not  in  Tom  Moore : — 
Young  Love  likes  to  knock  at  a  pretty  girl's  door  : 
So  he  call'd  upon  Lucy — 'twas  just  ten  o'clock — 
Like  a  spruce  single  man,  with  a  smart  double  knock. 

Now  a  hand-maid,  whatever  her  fingers  be  at, 
Will  run  like  a  puss  when  she  hears  a  ra/-tat  : 
So  Lucy  ran  up — and  in  two  seconds  more 
Had  question'd  the  stranger  and  answer'd  the  door. 

The  meeting  was  bliss  ;  but  the  parting  was  woe; 
For  the  moment  will  come  when  such  comers  must  go. 
So  she  kiss'd  him,  and  whisper'd — poor  innocent  thing — 
"  The  next  time  you  come,  love,  pray  come  with  a  ring." 

Thomas  Hood. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 


CCCCXIII. 


317 


If  the  man  who  turnips  cries, 
Cry  not  when  his  father  dies, 
'Tis  a  proof  that  he  had  rather 
Have  a  turnip  than  his  father. 

Samuel  Johnson. 


ccccxiv. 

REPORT  OF  AN  ADJUDGED  CASE,  NOT  TO  BE  FOUND  IN 
ANY  OF  THE  BOOKS. 

BETWEEN  Nose  and  Eyes  a  strange  contest  arose, 
The  spectacles  set  them  unhappily  wrong  ; 

The  point  in  dispute  was,  as  all  the  world  knows, 
To  which  the  said  spectacles  ought  to  belong. 

So  Tongue  was  the  lawyer,  and  argued  the  cause 

With  a  great  deal  of  skill,  and  a  wig  full  of  learning ; 

While  chief  baron  Ear  sat  to  balance  the  laws, 
So  famed  for  his  talent  in  nicely  discerning. 

In  behalf  of  the  Nose  it  will  quickly  appear, 

And  your  lordship,  he  said,  will  undoubtedly  find, 

That  the  Nose  has  had  spectacles  always  in  wear, 
Which  amounts  to  possession  time  out  of  mind. 

Then  holding  the  spectacles  up  to  the  court — 

Your  lordship  observes  they  are  made  with  a  straddle, 

As  wide  as  the  ridge  of  the  Nose  is  ;  in  short, 
Design'd  to  sit  close  to  it,  just  like  a  saddle. 

Again,  would  your  lordship  a  moment  suppose 
('Tis  a  case  that  has  happen'd,  and  may  be  again) 

That  the  visage  or  countenance  had  not  a  Nose, 

Pray  who  would,  or  who  could,  wear  spectacles  then  ? 

On  the  whole  it  appears,  and  my  argument  shows, 
With  a  reasoning  the  court  will  never  condemn, 

That  the  spectacles  plainly  were  made  for  the  Nose, 
And  the  Nose  was  as  plainly  intended  for  them. 


3i8  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

Then  shifting  his  side  (as  a  lawyer  knows  how), 
He  pleaded  again  in  behalf  of  the  Eyes  ; 

But  what  were  his  arguments  few  people  know, 
For  the  court  did  not  think  they  were  equally  wise. 

So  his  lordship  decreed,  with  a  grave  solemn  tone, 

Decisive  and  clear,  without  one  if  or  but — 
That,  whenever  the  Nose  put  his  spectacles  on, 
By  daylight  or  candlelight — Eyes  should  be  shut  ! 

William  Cowper. 

ccccxv. 
THE  LAY  OF  THE  LEVITE. 

THERE  is  a  sound  that's  dear  to  me, 

It  haunts  me  in  my  sleep  ; 
I  wake,  and,  if  I  hear  it  not, 

I  cannot  choose  but  weep. 
Above  the  roaring  of  the  wind, 

Above  the  river's  flow, 
Methinks  I  hear  the  mystic  cry 

Of  "Clo!— oldClo!" 

The  exile's  song,  it  thrills  among 

The  dwellings  of  the  free, 
Its  sound  is  strange  to  English  ears, 

But  'tis  not  strange  to  me ; 
For  it  hath  shook  the  tented  field 

In  ages  long  ago, 
And  hosts  have  quail  'd  before  the  cry 

Of  "Clo!— old  Clo!" 

O,  lose  it  not !  forsake  it  not ! 

And  let  no  time  efface 
The  memory  of  that  solemn  sound, 

The  watchword  of  our  race  ; 
For  not  by  dark  and  eagle  eye, 

The  Hebrew  shalt  thou  know, 
So  well  as  by  the  plaintive  cry 

Of  "  Clo  !— old  Clo  !  " 

Even  now,  perchance,  by  Jordan's  banks, 

Or  Sidon's  sunny  walls, 
Where,  dial-like,  to  portion  time, 

The  palm-tree's  shadow  falls, 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

The  pilgrims,  wending  on  their  way, 

Will  linger  as  they  go, 
And  listen  to  the  distant  cry 

Of  "  Clo  !— old  Clo  !  " 

William  E.  Aytotin. 

ccccxvi. 
SONG. 

MY  mother  bids  me  spend  my  smiles 
On  all  who  come  and  call  me  fair, 

As  crumbs  are  thrown  upon  the  tiles, 
To  all  the  sparrows  of  the  air. 

But  I've  a  darling  of  my  own 

For  whom  I  hoard  my  little  stock — 

What  if  I  chirp  him  all  alone, 

And  leave  mamma  to  feed  the  flock ! 

Thomas  Hood. 

ccccxvn. 
AN  IMITATION  OF  WORDSWORTH. 

THERE  is  a  river  clear  and  fair, 

'Tis  neither  broad  nor  narrow ; 
It  winds  a  little  here  and  there — 
It  winds  about  like  any  hare  ; 
And  then  it  takes  as  straight  a  course 
As  on  the  turnpike  road  a  horse, 

Or  through  the  air  an  arrow. 

The  trees  that  grow  upon  the  shore, 
Have  grown  a  hundred  years  or  more  ; 

So  long  there  is  no  knowing ; 
Old  Daniel  Dobson  does  not  know 
When  first  these  trees  began  to  grow  ; 
But  still  they  grew,  and  grew,  and  grew, 
As  if  they'd  nothing  else  to  do, 

But  ever  to  be  growing. 

The  impulses  of  air  and  sky 
Have  rear'd  their  stately  heads  so  high, 
And  clothed  their  boughs  with  green  ; 


320 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

Their  leaves  the  dews  of  evening  quaff, — 
And  when  the  winds  blow  loud  and  keen, 

I've  seen  the  jolly  timbers  laugh, 

And  shake  their  sides  with  merry  glee — 

Wagging  their  heads  in  mockery 

Fix'd  are  their  feet  in  solid  earth, 

Where  winds  can  never  blow; 
But  visitings  of  deeper  birth 

Have  reach'd  their  roots  below. 
For  they  have  gain'd  the  river's  brink 
And  of  the  living  waters  drink. 

There's  little  Will,  a  five  years  child — 

He  is  my  youngest  boy ; 
To  look  on  eyes  so  fair  and  wild, 

It  is  a  very  joy: — 

He  hath  conversed  with  sun  and  shower, 
And  dwelt  with  every  idle  flower, 

As  fresh  and  gay  as  them. 
He  loiters  with  the  briar  rose, — 
The  blue-belles  are  his  play-fellows, 

That  dance  upon  their  slender  stem. 

And  I  have  said,  my  little  Will, 
Why  should  not  he  continue  still 

A  thing  of  Nature's  rearing  ? 
A  thing  beyond  the  world's  control — 
A  living  vegetable  soul, — 

No  human  sorrow  fearing. 

It  were  a  blessed  sight  to  see 
That  child  become  a  Willow-tree, 

His  brother  trees  among. 
He'd  be  four  times  as  tall  as  me, 

And  live  three  times  as  long. 

Catherine  M.  Fanshawe. 


ccccxvnr. 
THE  BROKEN  DISH. 

WHAT'S  life  but  full  of  care  and  doubt, 
With  all  its  fine  humanities, 

With  parasols  we  walk  about, 
Long  pigtails  and  such  vanities. 


LYRA  ELEGANTfARUM.  321 

We  plant  pomegranate  trees  and  things, 

And  go  in  gardens  sporting, 
With  toys  and  fans  of  peacock's  wings, 

To  painted  ladies  courting. 

We  gather  flowers  of  every  hue, 

And  fish  in  boats  for  fishes, 
Build  summer-houses  painted  blue, 

But  life's  as  frail  as  dishes. 

Walking  about  their  groves  of  trees, 

Blue  bridges  and  blue  rivers, 
How  little  thought  them  two  Chinese, 

They'd  both  be  smash 'd  to  shivers. 

Thomas  Hood. 

CCCCXIX. 

ELEGY  ON  THE  ABROGATION  OF  THE  BIRTH-NIGHT  BALL, 
AND  THE  CONSEQUENT  FINAL  SUBVERSION  OF  THE 
MINUET. 

By  a  beau  of  the  last  century. 

Now  cease  the  exulting  strain, 

And  bid  the  warbling  lyre  complain  ; 

Heave  the  soft  sigh,  and  drop  the  tuneful  tear, 

And  mingle  notes  far  other  than  of  mirth, 

E'en  with  the  song  that  greets  the  new-born  year, 

Or  hails  the  day  that  gave  a  monarch  birth. 

That  self-same  sun  whose  chariot  wheels  have  roll'd 

Thro'  many  a  circling  year,  with  glorious  toil, 

Up  to  the  axles  in  refulgent  gold, 

And  gems,  and  silk,  and  crape,  and  flowers,  and  foil  ; 

That  self-same  sun  no  longer  dares 

Bequeath  his  honours  to  his  heirs, 

And  bid  the  dancing  hours  supply 

As  erst,  with  kindred  pomp,  his  absence  from  the  sky 

For  ever  at  his  lordly  call 

Uprose  the  spangled  night ! 

Leading,  in  gorgeous  splendour  bright, 

The  minuet  and  the  Ball. 

And  balls  each  frolic  hour  may  bring, 

That  revels  through  the  maddening  spring, 


322 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

Shaking  with  hurried  steps  the  painted  floor  : 
But  Minuets  are  no  more  ! 

No  more  the  well-taught  feet  shall  tread 

The  figure  of  the  mazy  Zed  : 

The  beau  of  other  times  shall  mourn 

As  gone,  and  never  to  return, 

The  graceful  bow,  the  curtsy  low, 

The  floating  forms,  that  undulating  glide, 

(  Like  anchor'd  vessels  on  the  swelling  tide,) 

That  rise  and  sink,  alternate,  as  they  go, 

Now  bent  the  knee,  now  lifted  on  the  toe, 

The  side-long  step  that  works  its  even  way, 

The  slow  pas-grave,  and  slower  balance — 

Stilt  with  fixed  gaze  he  eyes  the  imagined  fair, 

And  turns  the  corner  with  an  easy  air. 

Not  so  his  partner — from  her  tangled  train 

To  free  her  captive  foot,  she  strives  in  vain  ; 

Her  tangled  train,  the  struggling  captive  holds 

(Like  great  Alcides)  in  its  fatal  folds  ; 

The  laws  of  gallantry  his  aid  demand, 

The  laws  of  etiquette  withhold  his  hand. 

Such  pains,  such  pleasures,  now  alike  are  o'er, 

And  beau  and  etiquette  shall  soon  exist  no  more  1 

In  their  stead,  behold  advancing, 

Modern  men  and  women  dancing  ! 

Step  and  dress  alike  express, 

Above,  below,  from  head  to  toe, 

Male  and  female  awkwardness. 

Without  a  hoop,  without  a  ruffle, 

One  eternal  jig  and  shuffle  ; 

\V  here's  the  air,  and  where's  the  gait 

Where's  the  feather  in  the  hat  ? 

Where's  the  frizzed  toupee  ?  and  where, 

O,  where's  the  powder  for  the  hair  ? 

Where  are  all  their  former  graces  ? 

And  where  three-quarters  of  their  faces  ? 

With  half  the  forehead  lost  and  half  the  chin  ? 

We  know  not  where  they  end,  or  where  begin. 

Mark  the  pair,  whom  favouring  fortune 

At  the  envy'd  top  shall  place, 
Humbly  they  the  rest  impirtune 

To  vouchsafe  a  little  space. 


323 


LYRA   ELEGANTIARUM. 

Not  the  graceful  arm  to  wave  in, 

Or  the  silken  robe  expand; 
All  superfluous  action  saving, 

Idly  drops  the  lifeless  hand. 

Her  downcast  eye  the  modest  beauty 
Sends,  as  doubtful  of  their  skill, 
To  see  if  feet  perform  their  duty, 
And  their  endless  task  fulfil  : 
Footing,  footing,  footing,  footing, 
Footing,  footing,  footing,  still. 

While  the  rest  in  hedgerow  state, 

All  insensible  to  sound, 
With  more  than  human  patience  wait, 
Like  trees  fast  rooted  to  the  ground. 

Not  such  as  once,  with  sprightly  motion, 

To  distant  music  stirred  their  stumps, 
And  tript  from  Pelion  to  the  Ocean, 

Performing  avenues  and  clumps : 
What  time  old  Jason's  ship,  the  Argo, 

Orpheus  fiddling  at  the  helm, 
From  Colchis  bore  her  golden  cargo, 

Dancing  o'er  the  azure  main. 
But  why  recur  to  ancient  story, 

Or  balls  of  modern  date  ? 

Be  mine  to  trace  the  Minuet's  fate, 
And  weep  its  fallen  glory  : 
To  ask,  Who  rang  the  parting  knell  ? 

If  Vestris  came  the  solemn  dirge  to  hear  ? 

Genius  of  Valoiiy,  didst  thou  hover  near  ? 
Shade  of  Lepicq  !  and  spirit  of  Gardel ! 

I  saw  their  angry  forms  arise 

Where  wreaths  of  smoke  involve  the  skies 

Above  St.  James's  steeple : 
I  heard  them  curse  our  heavy  heel, 
The  Irish  step,  the  Highland  reel, 

And  all  the  United  People. 
To  the  dense  air  the  curse  adhesive  clung, 
Repeated  since  by  many  a  modish  tongue. 
In  words  that  may  be  said  but  never  shall  be  sung. 


324 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 


What  cause  untimely  urged  the  Minuet's  fate  ? 
Did  war  subvert  the  manners  of  the  State  ? 
Did  savage  nations  give  the  barbarous  law, 
The  Gaul  Cisalpine,  or  the  Gonoquaw? 
Its  fall  was  destined  to  a  peaceful  land, 
A  sportive  pencil,  and  a  courtly  hand ; 
They  left  a  name,  that  time  itself  might  spare, 
To  grinding  organs  and  the  dancing  bear. 
On  Avon's  banks,  where  sport  and  laugh 

Careless  pleasure's  sons  and  daughters, 
Where  health,  the  sick,  and  aged  quaff, 

From  good  King  Bladud's  healing  waters  ; 
While  genius  sketch'd,  and  humour  group'd, 
Then  it  sicken'd  then  it  droop'd  : 
Sadden'd  with  laughter,  wasted  with  a  sneer, 
And  "  the  long  minuet "  shortened  its  career. 
With  cadence  slow,  and  solemn  pace, 
Th'  indignant  mourner  quits  the  place — 
For  ever  quits — no  more  to  roam 
From  proud  Augusta's  regal  dome. 
Ah  !  not  unhappy  who  securely  rest, 

Within  the  sacred  precincts  of  a  court; 
Who,  then,  their  timid  steps  shall  dare  arrest  ? 

White  wands  shall  guide  them,  and  gold  sticks  support 
In  vain — these  eyes  with  tears  of  horror  wet, 
Read  its  death-warrant  in  the  Court  Gazette  ! 
"  No  ball  to-night !  "  Lord  Chamberlain  proclaims  ; 
"  No  ball  to-night  shall  grace  thy  roof,  St.  James  !  " 
"  No  ball !  "  the  Globe,  the  Sun,  the  Star  repeat, 
The  morning  paper  and  the  evening  sheet  ; 
Thro'  all  the  land  the  tragic  news  has  spread, 
And  all  the  land  has  mourned  the  Minuet  dead. 
So  power  completes  :  but  satire  sketch'd  the  plan, 
And  Cecil  ends  what  Bunbury  began. 

Catherine  M.  Fanshaioe. 


CCCCXX. 
GOOD-NIGHT. 

GOOD-NIGHT?  ah !  no ;  the  hour  is  ill 
Which  severs  those  it  should  unite  ; 

Let  us  remain  together  still, 
Then  it  will  be  Good-night, 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

How  can  I  call  the  lone  night  good, 

Though  thy  sweet  wishes  wing  its  flight  ? 

Be  it  not  said,  thought,  understood, 
That  it  will  be  <7W-night. 

To  hearts  which  near  each  other  move 
From  evening  close  to  morning  light, 

The  night  is  good ;  because,  my  Love, 
They  never  say  Good-night. 

Percy  B.  Shelley. 

CCCCXXi. 
GOOD-NlGHT. 

GOOD-NIGHT  to  thee,  Lady  !  tho'  many 

Have  join'd  in  the  dance  of  to-night, 
Thy  form  was  the  fairest  of  any, 

Where  all  was  seducing  and  bright; 
Thy  smile  was  the  softest  and  dearest, 

Thy  form  the  most  sylph-like  of  all, 
And  thy  voice  the  most  gladsome  and  clearest 

That  e'er  held  a  partner  in  thrall. 

Good-night  to  thee,  Lady  !  'tis  over — 

The  waltz,  the  quadrille,  and  the  song — 
The  whisper'd  farewell  of  the  lover, 

The  heartless  adieu  of  the  throng  ; 
The  heart  that  was  throbbing  with  pleasure, 

The  eye-lid  that  long'd  for  repose — 
The  beaux  that  were  dreaming  of  treasure, 

The  girls  that  were  dreaming  of  beaux. 

'Tis  over — the  lights  are  all  dying, 

The  coaches  all  driving  away  ; 

nd  many  a  fair  one  is  sighing, 

And  many  a  false  one  is  gay  ; 
And  Beauty  counts  over  her  numbers 

Of  conquests,  as  homeward  she  drives — 
And  some  are  gone  home  to  their  slumbers, 

And  some  are  gone  home  to  their  wives. 

And  I,  while  my  cab  in  the  shower 

Is  waiting,  the  last  at  the  door, 
Am  looking  all  round  for  the  flower 

That  fell  from  your  wreath  on  the  floor. 


326  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

I'll  keep  it — if  but  to  remind  me, 
Though  wither'd  and  faded  its  hue — 

Wherever  next  season  may  find  me — 
Of  England — of  Almack's — and  you  I 

There  are  tones  that  will  haunt  us,  tho'  lonely 

Our  path  be  o'er  mountain,  or  sea  ; 
There  are  looks  that  will  part  from  us  only 

When  memory  ceases  to  be; 
There  are  hopes  which  our  burthen  can  lighten, 

Tho'  toilsome  and  steep  be  the  way; 
And  dreams  that,  like  moonlight,  can  brighten 

With  a  light  that  is  clearer  than  day. 

There  are  names  that  we  cherish,  tho'  nameless, 

For  aye  on  the  lip  they  may  be  ; 
There  are  hearts  that,  tho'  fettered,  are  tameless, 

And  thoughts  unexpress'd,  but  still  free  ! 
And  some  are  too  grave  for  a  rover, 

And  some  for  a  husband  too  light, — 
The  Ball  and  my  dream  are  all  over — 

Good-night  to  thee,  Lady,  Good-night ! 

Edward  Fitzgerald. 


CCCCXXII. 
CHIVALRY  AT  A  DISCOUNT. 

FAIR  cousin  mine  !  the  golden  days 

Of  old  romance  are  over ; 
And  minstrels  now  care  nought  for  bays 

Nor  damsels  for  a  lover  ; 
And  hearts  are  cold,  and  lips  are  mute 

That  kindled  once  with  passion, 
And  now  we've  neither  lance  nor  lute, 

And  tilting's  out  of  fashion. 

Yet  weeping  Beauty  mourns  the  time 

When  Love  found  words  in  flowers  ; 
When  softest  sighs  were  breathed  in  rhyme, 

And  sweetest  songs  in  bowers  ; 
Now  wedlock  is  a  sober  thing — 

No  more  of  chains  or  forges  ! — 
A  plain  young  man — a  plain  gold  ring — 

The  curate — and  St.  George's. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

Then  every  cross-bow  had  a  string, 

And  every  heart  a  fetter  ; 
And  making  love  was  quite  the  thing, 

And  making  verses  better ; 
And  maiden-aunts  were  never  seen, 

And  gallant  beaux  were  plenty  ; 
And  lasses  married  at  sixteen, 

And  died  at  one-and-twenty. 

Then  hawking  was  a  noble  sport, 

And  chess  a  pretty  science  ; 
And  huntsmen  learnt  to  blow  a  tnorte, 

And  heralds  a  defiance  ; 
And  knights  and  spearmen  show'd  their  might, 

And  timid  hinds  took  warning  ; 
And  hypocras  was  warm'd  at  night 

And  coursers  in  the  morning. 

Then  plumes  and  pennons  were  prepared, 

And  patron-saints  were  lauded  ; 
And  noble  deeds  were  bravely  dared, 

And  noble  dames  applauded  ; 
And  Beauty  play'd  the  leech's  part, 

And  wounds  were  heal'd  with  syrup ; 
And  warriors  sometimes  lost  a  heart, 

But  never  lost  a  stirrup. 

Then  there  was  no  such  thing  as  Fear, 

And  no  such  word  as  Reason  ; 
And  Faith  was  like  a  pointed  spear, 

And  Fickleness  was  treason; 
And  hearts  were  soft,  though  blows  were  hard  ; 

But  when  the  fight  was  over, 
A  brimming  goblet  cheer'd  the  board, 

His  Lady's  smile  the  lover. 

Ay,  these  were  glorious  days  !    The  moon 

Had  then  her  true  adorers  ; 
And  there  were  lyres  and  lutes  in  tune, 

And  no  such  thing  as  snorers  ; 
And  lovers  swam,  and  held  at  nought 

Streams  broader  than  the  Mersey ; 
And  fifty  thousand  would  have  fought 

For  a  smile  from  Lady  Jersey. 


327 


•J28  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

Then  people  wore  an  iron  vest, 

And  had  no  use  for  tailors ; 
And  the  artizans  who  lived  the  best 

Were  armourers  and  nailers  ; 
And  steel  was  measured  by  the  ell, 

And  trousers  lined  with  leather  ; 
And  jesters  wore  a  cap  and  bell, 

And  knights  a  cap  and  feather. 

Then  single  folks  might  live  at  ease, 

And  married  ones  might  sever  ; 
Uncommon  doctors  had  their  fees, 

But  Doctors  Commons  never; 
O  !  had  we  in  those  times  been  bred, 

Fair  cousin,  for  thy  glances, 
Instead  of  breaking  Priscian's  head, 

I  had  been  breaking  lances ! 

Edward  Fitzgerald. 


CCCCXXIII. 
ON  CATULLUS. 

TELL  me  not  what  too  well  I  know 
About  the  Bard  of  Sirmio— 

Yes,  in  Thalia's  son 
Such  stains  there  are — as  when  a  Grace 
Sprinkles  another's  laughing  face 

With  nectar,  and  runs  on. 

Walter  S.  Landor. 

cccxxiv. 
THE  ROMANCE  OF  THE  SWAN'S  NEST. 

LITTLE  Ellie  sits  alone 
'Mid  the  beeches  of  a  meadow 

By  a  stream-side  on  the  grass, 

And  the  trees  are  showering  down 
Doubles  of  their  leaves  in  shadow 

On  her  shining  hair  and  face. 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUAf. 

She  has  thrown  her  bonnet  by, 
And  her  feet  she  has  been  dipping 

In  the  shallow  water's  flow  : 

Now  she  holds  them  nakedly 
In  her  hands,  all  sleek  and  dripping, 

While  she  rocketh  to  and  fro. 

Little  Ellie  sits  alone, 
And  the  smile  she  softly  uses 

Fills  the  silence  like  a  speech, 

While  she  thinks  what  shall  be  done, 
And  the  sweetest  pleasure  chooses 

For  her  future  within  reach. 

Little  Ellie  in  her  smile 
Chooses — "  I  will  have  a  lover, 

Riding  on  a  steed  of  steeds: 

He  shall  love  me  without  guile, 
And  to  Aim  I  will  discover 

The  swan's  nest  among  the  reeds. 

"  And  the  steed  shall  be  red-roan, 
And  the  lover  shall  be  noble, 

With  an  eye  that  takes  the  breath  : 

And  the  lute  he  plays  upon 
Shall  strike  ladies  into  trouble, 

As  his  sword  strikes  men  to  death. 

"  And  the  steed  it  shall  be  shod 
All  in  silver,  housed  in  azure, 

And  the  mane  shall  swim  the  wind ; 

And  the  hoofs  along  the  sod 
Shall  flash  onward  and  keep  measure, 

Till  the  shepherds  look  behind. 

"  Bnt  my  lover  will  not  prize 
All  the  glory  that  he  rides  in, 

When  he  gazes  in  my  face  : 

He  will  say,  '  O  Love,  thine  eyes 
Build  the  shrine  my  soul  abides  in, 

And  I  kneel  here  for  thy  grace  1 ' 

"  Then,  ay,  then  he  shall  kneel  low, 
With  the  red-roan  steed  anear  him, 


330 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

Which  shall  seem  to  understand, 
Till  I  answer,  '  Rise  and  go  ! 
For  the  world  must  love  and  fear  him 
Whom  I  gift  with  heart  and  hand.' 

"  Then  he  will  arise  so  pale, 
I  shall  feel  my  own  lips  tremble 

With  a. yes  I  must  not  say, 

Nathless  maiden-brave,  'Farewell,' 
I  will  utter,  and  dissemble — 

'  Light  to-morrow  with  to-day  1 ' 

"  Then  he'll  ride  among  the  hills 
To  the  wide  world  past  the  river, 

There  to  put  away  all  wrong; 

To  make  straight  distorted  wills, 
And  to  empty  the  broad  quiver 

Which  the  wicked  bear  along. 

"  Three  times  shall  a  young  foot-page 
Swim  the  stream  and  climb  the  mountain, 

And  kneel  down  beside  my  feet — 

'  Lo,  my  master  sends  this  page, 
Lady,  for  thy  pity's  counting  ! 

What  wilt  thou  exchange  for  it  ?  ' 

"  And  the  first  time,  I  will  send 
A  little  rose-bud  for  a  guerdon, 

And  the  second  time,  a  glove  ; 

But  the  third  time — I  may  bend 
From  my  pride,  and  answer — '  Pardon, 

If  he  comes  to  take  my  love.' 

"  Then  the  young  foot-page  will  run, 
Then  my  lover  will  ride  faster, 

Till  he  kneeleth  at  my  knee  : 

'  I  am  a  duke's  eldest  son, 
Thousand  serfs  do  call  me  master, 

But,  O  Love,  1  love  but  thee  ! ' 

"  He  will  kiss  me  on  the  mouth 
Then,  and  lead  me  as  a  lover 

Through  the  crowds  that  praise  his  deed  : 

And,  when  soul-tied  by  one  troth, 
Unto  him  I  will  discover 

That  swan's  nest  among  the  reeds." 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM.  33! 

Little  Ellie,  with  her  smile 
Not  yet  ended,  rose  up  gaily, 

Tied  the  bonnet,  donn'd  the  shoe, 

And  went  homeward  round  a  mile, 
Just  to  see,  as  she  did  daily, 

What  more  eggs  were  with  the  two. 

Pushing  thro'  the  elm-tree  copse, 
Winding  up  the  stream,  light-hearted, 

Where  the  osier-pathway  leads, 

Past  the  boughs  she  stoops — and  stops. 
Lo,  the  white  swan  had  deserted  ! 

And  a  rat  had  gnaw'd  the  reeds  ! 

Ellie  went  home  sad  and  slow. 
If  she  found  the  lover  ever, 

With  his  red-roan  steed  of  steeds, 

Sooth  I  know  not ;  but  I  know 
She  could  never  show  him — never, 

That  swan's  nest  among  the  reeds  ! 

Elizabeth  B.  Browning. 


ccccxxv. 

PROUD  word  you  never  spoke,  but  you  will  speak 
Four  not  exempt  from  pride  some  future  day. 

Resting  on  one  white  hand  a  warm  wet  cheek 
Over  my  open  volume  you  will  say 
"  This  man  loved  me  !  "  then  rise  and  trip  away. 

Walter  S.  Landor. 

ccccxxvi. 

How  many  voices  gaily  sing, 

"  O  happy  morn,  O  happy  spring 

Of  life  !  "  meanwhile  there  comes  o'er  me 

A  softer  voice  from  memory, 

And  says,  "  If  loves  and  hopes  have  flown 

With  years,  think  too  what  griefs  are  gone !  " 

Walter  S.  Landor. 


332 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 


CCCCXXVII. 

THAT  out  of  sight  is  out  of  mind 
Is  true  of  most  we  leave  behind  ; 
It  is  not  sure,  nor  can  be  true, 
My  own,  my  only  love,  of  you. 

They  were  my  friends, — 'twas  sad  to  part ; 
Almost  a  tear  began  to  start ; 
But  yet  as  things  run  on  they  find, 
That  out  of  sight  is  out  of  mind. 

For  men  that  will  not  idlers  be, 
Must  lend  their  hearts  to  things  they  see ; 
And  friends  who  leave  them  far  behind, 
When  out  of  sight  are  out  of  mind. 

I  blame  it  not ;  I  think  that  when 
The  cold  and  silent  meet  again, 
Kind  hearts  will  yet  as  erst  be  kind, 
'Twas  "  out  of  sight "  was  "  out  of  mind." 

That  friends,  however  friends  they  were, 
Still  deal  with  things  as  things  occur, 
And  that,  excepting  for  the  blind, 
What's  out  of  sight  is  out  of  mind. 

But  Love,  the  poets  say,  is  blind  ; 
So  out  of  sight  and  out  of  mind 
Need  not,  nor  will,  I  think,  be  true, 
My  own,  and  only  love,  of  you. 

Arthur  H.  dough. 


CCCCXXVIII. 

CLEMENTINA  AND  LUCILLA. 

In  Clementina's  artless  mien 
Lucilla  asks  me  what  I  see, 
And  are  the  roses  of  sixteen 
Enough  for  me  ? 


333 


LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

Lucilla  asks,  if  that  be  all, 

Have  I  not  cull'd  as  sweet  before — 
Ah,  yes,  Lucilla !  and  their  fall 
I  still  deplore. 

I  now  behold  another  scene, 

Where  pleasure  beams  with  heaven's  own  light, 
More  pure,  more  constant,  more  serene, 
And  not  less  bright. 

Faith,  on  whose  breast  the  Loves  repose, 

Whose  chain  of  flowers  no  force  can  sever  ; 
And  Modesty,  who  when  she  goes, 
Is  gone  for  ever. 

Walter  S  Landor. 


CCCCXXIX. 
THE  CASKET. 

SURE,  'tis  time  to  have  resign'd 
All  the  dainties  of  the  mind, 
And  to  take  a  little  rest 
After  Life's  too  lengthen'd  feast, 
Why  then  turn  the  Casket-key  ? 
What  is  there  within  to  see  ? 
Whose  is  this  dark  twisted  hair  ? 
Whose  this  other,  crisp  and  fair  ? 
Whose  the  slender  ring  ?  now  broken, 
Undesigned]  y,  a  token, 
Love  said  mine  ;  and  Friendship  said 
So  I  fear,  and  shook  her  head. 

Walter  S.  Landor. 


cccxxx. 
WHY  REPINE. 

WHY,  why  repine,  my  pensive  friend, 

At  pleasures  slipt  away  ? 
Some  the  stern  Fates  will  never  lend. 

And  all  refuse  to  stay. 


334  LYRA  ELEGANTIARUM. 

I  see  the  rainbow  in  the  sky, 

The  dew  upon  the  grass, 
I  see  them,  and  I  ask  not  why 

They  glimmer  or  they  pass. 

With  folded  arms  I  linger  not 
To  call  them  back  ;  'twere  vain ; 

In  this,  or  in  some  other  spot, 
I  know  they'll  shine  again. 

Walter  S.  Landor, 


INDEX   OF   WRITERS, 

WITH    DATES   OF   THEIR    BIRTH    AND   DEATH. 


ALDRICH,  Dean  (1647 — 1710) 

Reasons  for  drinking — CCLXII. 
ANTI-JACOBIN  (1797 — 1798) 

The  friend  of  humanity — cent 

Song  of  Rogers — ccccix. 
AYTON,  Sir  Robert  (1570 — 1638) 

I  do  confess  thou'rt  smooth  and  fair — xi 

Woman's  inconstancy — xvi. 
AVTOUN,  William  E.  (1813—1865) 

The  lay  of  the  Levite — ccccxv. 

BAILLIE,  Joanna  (1762 — 1851) 

To  a  kitten — CCCLXIII. 
BARBAULD,  Anna  Letitia  (1743 — 1825) 

Life — ccc. 
BARHAM,  Richard  H.  (1789 — 1845) 

1  .ines  left  at  Theodore  Hook's  house — CCCLIH 

The  poplar— CCCXCHI. 
BARNARD,  Dr.,  Bishop  of  Limerick  (1727 — 1806) 

On  mending  his  faults — CLIII. 

BAYLY,  Thomas  Haynes  (1797 — 1839) 

I'd  be  a  butterfly — cccxcvm 
A  fashionable  novel— cccciv. 

BEAZLEY,  Samuel  (1786 — 1851) 

When    I'm   dead  on  my  tombstone   I   hope  they  will 
say — CCLXVI. 

BEDINGFIELD,  William 

The  lover's  choice — cxxxrv 
Contentment— ccxxv. 

BEHN,  Aphra  (        —1689)  

The  alternative— LXVII. 

BISHOP,  Rev.  Samuel  (1731— >  795) 

To  his  wife,  with  a  knife — cxvin 
To  his  wife,  with  a  ring— cxix. 

BLANCHARD,  Laman  (1803—1845) 

Dolce  far  niente— CCCLXXVH. 


336  INDEX  OF  WRITERS. 

BI.OOMFIELD,  Robert  (1766-^1823) 

Why  he  thinks  she  loves  him — CCLXXXVHI. 

BRERBTON,  Mrs.  Jane  (1685 — 1740) 

On  Nash's  statue  at  Bath— CXLII. 

BRETON,  Nicholas  (1555—16    ) 

Phiiiida  and  Corydon — IX. 

BROME,  Alexander  (1620 — 1666) 

Why  I  love  her — LVH 
To  a  coy  lady— LIX. 

BROUGH,  Robert  H.  (1828 — 1860) 

Neighbour  Nelly — ccxxvin. 
BROWNING,  Mrs.  Elizabeth  B.  (1809 — 1861) 

The  romance  of  the  swan's  nest — ccccxxiv. 

BVRON,  George,  Lord  (1788 — 1824) 

To  Thomas  Moore— CCLXX 
Love  and  glory — cccxi 
The  girl  of  Cadiz — CCCXLHI 
To  Mr.  Hodgson — cccxux. 

CAMPBELL,  Thomas,  LL.D.  (1777—1844) 

Margaret  and  Dora — cccxxix 

Young  love's  a  gallant  boy — cccxxxix. 

CANNING,  Rt,  Hon.  George  (1770 — 1827) 

Epistle  from  Lord  Bonngdon  to  Lord  Granville — cxcvii 

A  political  despatch — cciv 

A  fragment  of  an  oration — ccv 

The  pilot  that  weather'd  the  storm — CCVH 
CAPEL,  Arthur,  Lord  (16    — 1649) 

Loyalty  confined — LXXIX. 
CAREW,  Thomas  (1589 — 1639) 

He  that  loves  a  rosy  cheek — xxi 

The  inquiry — xxv 

The  primrose — xxvn 

Ask  me  no  more  where  Jove  bestows — xxx 

Ungrateful  beauty  threaten'd — LX. 

CAREY,  Henry  (j6    —1743) 

With  an  honest  old  friend,  and  a  merry  old  song — CCLIX 

Cato's  advice— CCLX. 
CARTWRIGHT,  William  (1611 — 1643) 

To  Chloe— in 

Lesbia  on  her  sparrow — CCCLVIT. 
CHESTERFIELD,  Earl  of  (1694 — 1773) 

The  statue  of  Nash  at  Bath — CXLHI 

Advice  to  a  lady  in  autumn — CXLIV 

On  Lord  Islay's  garden — CXLV. 
CLOUGH,  Arthur  H.  (1819—1861) 

Spectator  at  extra — CCLXXV 

Out  of  sight,  out  of  mind — ccccxxvu. 


INDEX  OF  WRITERS. 


337 


COLERIDGE,  Samuel  Taylor  (1772 — 1834) 

On  Job— CCL 

Cologne — CCLH 

To  a  young  lady  on  her  recovery  from  a  fever — ccciv 

Something  childish  but  very  natural — cccxix 

To  a  lady — cccxxv 

Names — CCCLXXVHI. 
COLLINS, (i8th  century) 

Good  old  things — cci.xi 

The  golden  farmer — CCLXXVI 

To-morrow — cccxn. 
COLEMAN,  George  (1762 — 1836) 

My  muse  and  I — CLXXXI. 
CONGREVB,  William  (1670 — 1729) 

Tell  me  no  more  I  am  deceived — LXXXVII 

Fair  Amoret  is  gone  astray — LXXXVIII 

False   tho'  she  be  to  me  and  love — xcix 

Pious  Selinda  goes  to  prayers— CLXXII. 
COWLEY,  Abraham  (1618—1667) 

Love  in  her  sunny  eyes — LXH 

The  wish — LXXXII. 
COWPER,  William  (1731 — 1800) 

To  Anne  Bodham — ccxxii 

The  poplar  field— cccxiv 

The  poet's  new  years's  gift — cccxxn 

The  judgement  of  the  poets — cccxxxm 

On  some  names  of  little  note — CCCXXXVH 

On  a  goldfinch  starved  to  death — CCCLX 

The  faithful  bird — CCCLXI 

Epitaph  on  a  hare — CCCLXII 

The  Colubriad — CCCLX v 

The  jackdaw — CCCLXVI 

To  Joseph  Hill — CCCLXVHI 

Catharina — CCCLXIX 

Report  of  an  adjudged  case — cccxiv. 
CRABBE,  George  (1754— 1832) 

The  whistling  boy  that  holds  the  plough— ccxci 

To  Cecilia — ccxcvi. 

CRAWFURD,  William  (1700 — 1750?) 

On  Mrs.  A.  H.  at  a  concert — cvi. 

CUNNINGHAM,  John  (1729 — 1773) 

Kate  of  Aberdeen — CLXXXVI. 

DANIEL,  Samuel  (1562 — 1619) 

Love  is  a  sickness  full  of  woes — iv. 
DB  LA  WARRB,  Earl  of  (1729—1777) 

Fair  Hebe — ccxvi. 

DONNB,  John  (1573  —  1631) 

Send  back  my  long  stray'd  eyes  to  me — x. 

DORSET,  Earl  of  (1637 — 1706) 

Phillis,  for  shame— LXXIV 
Dorinda— LXXVII 
Written  at  sea— LXXVII. 


338  INDEX  OF  WRITERS. 

DRYDEX,  John  (1631 — 1700) 

Phillis  unwilling — LXXXV 

To  fortune — LXXXVII 

A  pair  well  matched — xc. 
EGRKMONT,  Earl  of  (1710 — 1763) 

The  fair  thief— ccxxx. 
ELLIOT,  Sir  Gilbert  (    -1777) 

Aminta — cxxxv. 
ETHERIDGE,  Sir  George  (1639 — 1694) 

A  warning  to  swains — LXIX 

Carpe  Diem — LXXI 
FANSHAWH,  Miss  Catherine  M.  (1764 — 1834) 

Riddle  on  the  letter  H — CCCLXXIII 

Imitation  of  Wordsworth — ccccxvn 

Elegy  on  the  birth-night  ball — ccccxix 
FIELDING,  Henry  (1707 — 1754) 

On  a  halfpenny — CXL 

An  epistle  to  Sir  R.  Walpole — CLXXXIX 

An  epistle  to  Sir  R.  \Valpole-cxc. 

To  Celia — cxcm 
FITZGERALD  Edward  (circa  1820) 

Because — cccxcv 

G  opd-nigh  t — ccccxxi 

Chivalry  at  a  discount — ccccxxn 

FLATMAN,  Thomas  (1635 — 1688) 

On  marriage — cxx. 
Fox,  Right  Hon,  Charles  James  (1748 — 1806) 

To  Mrs.  Crewe — cxcvi. 
GARRICK,  David  (1716 — 1779) 

Come,  come,  my  good  shepherds,  our  flocks  we  must 
shear — CXLIX 

Ye  fair  married  dames  who  so  often  deplore — CL 

Advice  to  the  Marquis  of  Rockingham — cci. 
GAY,  John  (1688—1732) 

Damon  and  Cupid — xciv 

Phyllida — xcvi 

Go,  rose,  my  Chloris1  bosom  grace — ccci. 
GOLDSMITH,  Oliver  (1728 — 1774) 

The  retaliation — CXLVIII 

The  haunch  of  venison — CLII. 
GRAY,  Thomas  (1716—1771) 

On  the  death  of  a  favourite  cat — CCCLIX. 
GREENE,  Robert  (1560 — 1592) 

Happy  as  a  shepherd — vm. 

Content — LXXXI. 
GREVILLE,  Mrs.  Fanny  (1720? —        ) 

Prayer  for  indifference — ccxcvm. 
HAMILTON,  William  (1704 — 1754) 

The  despairing  lover — cit 


INDEX  OF  WRITERS. 


339 


HARRINGTON,  Sir  John  (1561—1612) 

Treason — ccxxxiv 
HEBER,  Reginald  (1783—1826) 

Sympathy — CCCLXXI 
HBRRICK,  Robert  (159 1—1674?) 

A    dialogue   between  himself   and    Mrs.    Elizabeth 
Wheeler— xxvi 

To  his  mistress  objecting — xxix 


Julia's  bed — xxxi 
U 


Jpon  Julia's  clothes — xxxn 
Delight  in  disorder — xxxiu 
The  night  piece — xxxix 
To  the  virgins  to  make  much  of  time — XL, 
The  headache — XLI 
The  ring — XLIII 
To  Dianeme — LXI 
To  carnations — LXIII 
The  bag  of  the  bee — xci 
The  bracelet — cxxvn 
To  laurels — CLXV 

Upon  a  lady  that  died  in  child-bed — CLXVI 
How  springs  came  first — CLXXXVII 
I.ove — what  it  is — ccxxxi 
Need — ccxxxn 
An  ode  to  Ben  Jonson — CCLIV 
The  Kiss — CCLXXVIII 
The  maiden  blush— CCCLXXVI. 

HILL,  Aaron  (1684-5 — '749~5°) 

Modesty  and  beauty  dangerous — ccxxxvn. 

HOLLAND,  Lord  (1773 — 1840) 

On  Samuel  Roger's  seat — CCCLXXXIV. 

HOOD,  Thomas  (1798 — 1845) 

I'm  not  a  single  man — ccxxvi 

To ,  at  Rotterdam— CCCLXXXIX 

On  a  distant  view  of  Clapham  academy — ccccni 

To  Minerva — ccccv 

The  flower — ccccvn 

The  burning  of  the  love  letter — ccccx 

The  water  Peri's  song — ccccxi 

"  Please  to  ring  the  belle  "— ccccxii 

I've  a  darling  of  my  own — ccccxvi 

The  broken  dish— ccCcxvin. 

HUNT,  Leigh  (1784—1859) 

Jenny  kiss'd  me— CCCLV. 

IRVING,  Washington  (1783—1859) 

Album  verses— CCCLXXXI. 

JAGO,  Richard  (1715 — 1781) 

Absence — CLVIIT. 
JEFFREY,  Francis,  Lord  (1773 — 1850) 

Album  verses — CCCLXXX. 

JENYNS,  Soame  (1704 — 1787) 

Too  plain,  dear  youth,  these  tell-tale  eyes— CLI. 


340 


INDEX  OF  WRITERS. 


JOHNSON  Samuel  (1709 — 1784) 

To  Mrs.  Thrale— cxni 

If  the  man  who  turnips  cries — ccccxm. 

JONES,  Sir  William  (1746—1794) 

To  a  newly  born  infant— CLXXVH. 

JONES,  Miss  Mary 

The  lass  of  the  hill. — CXd. 

JONSON,  Ben  (1574—1637) 

To  Celia— xvm 

Charis — her  triumph — XX 

Epita'ph  on  the  Countess  of  Pembroke — CLXIV. 

KENNY,  James  (1770 — 1849) 

The  old  story  over  again,     CCCXLI. 

LAMB,   Charles  (1775 — 1835) 

To  Hester — cccxxvil. 
LANDOR,  Walter  Savage  (1775 — 1864) 

To  E.  F.— XCVHI 

To  my  ninth  decade  I  have  tottered  on — CLXXIV 

On  Southey's  death — CLXXV 

Feathers— CLXXVIII 

I  strove  with  none — CLXXXII 

On  one  in  illness — CLXXXIII 

To  one  in  grief — CLXXXIV 

Ireland — ccxii 

A  retrospect — ccxxiv 

Ignorance  of  botany — ccxxxix 

Where  are  sighs — CCXL 

Her  lips — CCLXXXI 

Hers  never  was  the  heart  for  you — ccxciv 

The  pleasure  of  being  deceived — ccxcv 

To  lanthe — ccxcvn 

The  dragon  fly — ccxcix 

Tears — cccvii 

Twenty  years  hence — cccix 

Rose  Aylmer — cccxvi 

To  his  young  Rose  an  old  man  said — cccxvm 

Roses  and  thorns — cccxx 

While  thou  wert  by— cccxxi 

The  shortest  day — cccxxiu 

To  a  fair  maiden — cccxxiv 

One  year  ago — cccxxvi 

Rose  s  Birthday — CCCXLII 

The  grateful  heart — CCCXLV 

La  Promessa  Sposa — CCCXLVI 

Sympathy  in  sorrow — CCCXLVIII 

Mother,  I  cannot  mind  my  wheel — CCCLIV 

With  Petrarch's  sonnets — CCCLXXV 

Destiny  uncertain — CCCLXXIX 

Children  playing  in  a  churchyard — CCCXCIX 

The  effects  of  age — cccci 

On  Catullus — ccccxxm 

Proud  word  you  never  spoke,  but  you  will  speak — ccccxxv 

Hopes  have  flown,  but  griefs  are  gone — ccccxxvi 

Clementina  and  Lucilla — ccccxxvm 


INDEX  OF  WRITERS.  341 

LANIXJR,  Walter  Savage — continued. 

The  casket — ccccxxtx 

Why  repine — ccccxxx 
LEWIS,  Matthew  Gregory  (1773—1818) 

The  hours — ccxcn. 
LOVELACE,  Colonel  Richard  (1618—1658) 

To  Lucasta,  on  going  to  the  wars — XLV 

The  merit  of  inconstancy — LIII 

To  Lucasta,  on  going  beyond  the  seas — LV 

To  Althea — LXXVIII. 
LUTTRBLL,  Henry  (1771 — 1851) 

Death — CLXXX 

On  Miss  Ellen  Tree — CCXLTII 

Burnham  Beeches — CCCLXXXII 

At  Holland  House — CCCLXXXV. 
LYTTELTON,  Lord  (1709 — 1773) 

Hope  and  love — ccxxxv. 
MACAULAY,  Thomas  B.,  Lord  (1800 — 1859) 

As  I  sat  down  to  breakfast  in  state — ccx 

Valentine  to  the  Honble.  C.  Stanhope— ccxxvii 
MAHONY,  Francis  (1805 — 1865) 

The  bells  of  Shandon— CCLXIX. 
MELBOURNE,  William  Lamb,  Viscount  (1779 — 1848) 

"Tis  late,  and  I  must  haste  away — cxcvm. 
MONTAGU,  Lady  Mary  Wortley  (1690 — 1762) 

The  lover — cm 

On  Sir  Robert  Walpole— cxcu. 
MONTGOMERY,  James  (1771 — 1854) 

On  Robert  Burns — CCXLI. 

MOORE,  Edward  (1712 — 1757) 

The  joys  of  wedlock — cxvi. 
MOORE,  Thomas  (1780—1852) 

King  Crack  and  his  idols— ccvi 

Farewell,  but  whenever  you  welcome  the  hour — CCLXVIH 

To  Bessy— cccx 

I  knew  by  the  smoke  that  so  gracefully  curl'd— cccxv 

Dear  Fanny — cccxxxi 

Love  and  time — cccxxxiv 

Minerva's  thimble — cccxxxvi 

The  time  I've  lost  in  wooing— CCCXLIV 

Nets  and  cages — CCCLXXXIII 

A  temple  to  friendship — CCCLXXXVIII 

From  the  Honble.  Henry— to  Lady  Emma cccxcn 

Reason,  folly,  and  beauty— cccxcvi. 

MORRIS,  Captain  Charles  (1740—1832) 

The  toper's  apology — CCLXV1I 

The  contrast— CCCLI. 
MOTTEUX,  Peter  Anthony  (1660 — 1718) 

A  rondelay— cxxvi. 

NUGBNT,  Earl  (1709—1788) 

I  loved  thee,  beautiful  and  kind— ccxxxvm. 


342  INDEX  OF  WRITERS. 

OLDMIXON)   John  (1673 — 1742) 

I  lately  woo'd  but  'twas  in  haste — CXLI 

On  himself — CCLV. 
OLDYS,  William  (1696—1761) 

The  fly— CCLVI. 

ORFORD,  Robert  Walpole,  Earl  of  (1676 — 1745) 
To  the  sunflower — cxciv. 

ORFORD,  Horace  Walpole,  Earl  cf  (1717 — 1797) 

The  entail — cxxxix 

To  Madame  de  Damas  learning  English— ccxxxvi. 
OXFORD,  Earl  of  (1534 — 1604) 

A  renunciation — vn. 

PARNELL,   Dr.  Thomas  (1679 — 1717) 

When  thy  beauty  appears — cviil. 

PEACOCK,  Thomas  Love  (1785 — 1866) 

The  fate  of  a  broom— ccxi 

In  his  last  binn  Sir  Peter  lies — CCLXXI 

Rich  and  poor — CCLXXVII 

Love  and  age — CCCLXXXVH. 
PETERBOROUGH,  Lord  (1658 — 1735) 

Song  by  a  person  of  quality. — cxxxni. 
POPE,  Alexander  (1688 — 1744) 

To  Mr.  Thomas  Southern — XLVIII. 

The  contented  man — LXXXIV 

To  Mrs.  Martha  Blount — CXXM 

Answer  to  the   question — What  is  prudery? — cxxxi 

The  town  and  coumry  mouse — cxxxvm 

Epitaph  for  one  who  would  not  be  buried  in  West- 
minster Abbey — CLXX 

On  the  collar  of  a  dog — CCXLVII. 
PORSON,  Richard  (1759—1808) 

Epigram — ccx  LVIII. 
PRAED,  Winthrop  Macworth  (1802 — 1839) 

Mars  disarmed  by  Love — ccvui 

Verses  on  seeing  the  Speaker  asleep— ccix 

Sketch  of  a  young  lady — ccxxin 

The  chaunt  of  the  brazen  head— CCCLXXII 

Enigma— CCCLXXIV 

The  belle  of  the  ball-room — CCCLXXXVI 

The  vicar — cccxc 

A  letter  of  advice — cccxcn 

Our  ball — cccxciv 

Childhood  and  his  visitors — cccxcvn 

My  little  cousins — cccc 

School  and  schoolfellows— ccccu 

PRIOR,  Matthew  (1664— 1721) 

Cupid  mistaken — xcii 

The  question  to  Lisetta — xcin 

Answer  to  Chloe  jealous. — xcv 

The  female  Phaeton— xcvn 

The  right  name — c 

The  garland — en 

The  merchant  to  secure  his  treasure — civ 


INDEX  OF  WRITERS. 


343 


PRIOR,  Matthew — continued. 

In  vain  you  tell  your  parting  lover — cv 

The  remedy  worse  than  the  disease — CLXIII 

For  my  own  monument — CLXVII 

On  himself— CLXIX 

To  his  soul — CLXXIX 

The  secretary — cxcv 

To  a  child  of  quality— ccxix 

Written  in  a  lady's  Milton — ccxi.iv 

The  lady  who  offers  her  looking-glass  to  Venus — CCXLV. 

RALEIGH,  Sir  Walter  (1552 — 1618) 

The  shepherd's  description  of  love — xxvm 
The  nymph's  reply  to  the  shepherd— i. 

REYNOLDS,  J.  Hamilton  (1796 — 1853) 

On  Charles  Kemble— CCLXXIV. 

ROCHESTER,  Earl  of  (1648 — 1680) 

The  present  moment — LXIV 

The  victor  and  the  vanquish'd— LXV. 

ROGERS,  Samuel  (1762 — 1855) 

To asleep — cccui 

On  a  tear — cccvi 

To cccvni 

A  wish — cccxin 

An  Italian  song— cccxvn 

An  epitaph  on  a  robin  redbreast — CCCLXIV. 

SCOTT,  Sir  Walter  (1771— 1832) 

To  a  lady  with  flowers— CCXCIH. 

SEDLBY,  Sir  Charles  (1639 — *701)  ' 

To  Phillfs— LXVI 

To  Chloris— LXVIII 

To  Celia— LXX. 
SHAKSPBRE,  William  (1564 — 1616) 

My  flocks  feeds  not— VI 

0  mistress  mine,  where  are  you  roaming  ? — xv. 

SHELLEY,  Percy  B.  (1792—1822) 

Good-night— ccccxx. 

SHKNSTONE,  William  (1714 — 1763) 

Written  at  an  inn— CLIX. 

SHERIDAN,  Dr.  Thomas  (1684—1738) 

Dr.  Delany's  villa— cxxiv. 

SHERIDAN,  Rt.  Honble.  R.  B.  (1751—1816) 

On  a  woman  of  fashion— CXLVI 

Lord  Erskine  on  matrimony— ecu 

On  Lady  Margaret  Fordyce— CCLXXXVTI 

1  ne'er  could  any  lustre  see — ccxc 
The  waltz — CCCLXVII. 

SIDNEY,  Sir  Philip  (1554—1586) 

The  serenade — in 

A  ditty— v. 
SKELTON,  Rev.  John  (1463—1529) 

To  Mistress  Margaret  Hussey~l. 


344 


INDEX  OF  WRITERS. 


SMITH,  James  (1775 — 1839,) 

The  upas  in  Mary-le-bone  Lane — CCLXXIH 
Christmas  out  of  town— CCCLII. 

SMOLLETT,  Tobias  (1721 — 1771) 

Her  fascination— CLXXXV. 

SMYTH— 

0  thou  art  the  lad  of  my  heart,  Willy !— ccxxix. 

SOUTHERNS,  Thomas  (1660 — 1746) 

After  a  wedding— XLVII. 

SPENCER,  Honble.  Wm.  Robt.  (1770—1834) 
The  adieu— cccxxx 
To  Lady  Anne  Hamilton — cccxxxii 
Epitaph  on  year  1806 — cccxxxv 
Good-by  and  How  d'ye  do — cccxxxvm 
Wife,  children,  and  fnends— CCCXL. 

STRODE,  William  (1600 — 1644) 

Kisses— CCLXXIX. 

SUCKLING,  Sir  John  (1608  or  9 — 1641) 

The  careless  lover— xxxvi 

Why  so  pale  and  wan,  fond  lover? — xxxvn 

The  siege — XLH 

1  pr'ythee  send  me  back  my  heart — XLIV 
A  ballad  upon  a  wedding — XLVI 

Love  and  debt — XLIX 

Out  upon  it,  I  have  loved — LI 

The  advantage  of  foreknowledge — CCXXXHI, 

SURREY,  Earl  of  (1516—1547) 

The  means  to  attain  happy  life — LXXX. 

SWIFT,  Jonathan  (1667 — 1745) 

Mrs.  Harris's  petition — evil 

Stella's  birthday,  1718— cix 

Stella's  birthday,  1720 — ex 

Stella's  birthday,  1724 — cxi 

Stella's  birthday,  1726 — CXH 

The  grand  question  debated— cxxi 

On  the  little  house  by  the  churchyard  of  Castleknock 

— ex  xv 
A  love  song  in  the  modern  taste — ccccvi 

THACKERAY,  William  M.  (1811—1863) 
The  white  squall 
Peg  of  Limavaddy 
The  ballad  of  Bouillabaise 
The  mahogany  tree 

The  cane-bottora'd  chair        \  See  Preface, 
Piscator  and  Piscatrix 
At  the  church  gate 
The  age  of  wisdom 
To  his  serving  boy 
On  an  old  lamp 

VANBRUGH,  Sir  John  (1666—1726) 

Fable  related  by  a  beau  to  JEsop — LXXXIX 


INDEX  OF  WRITERS. 


345 


WALKBR,  Sidney  (1795 — 1846) 

To  a  girl  in  her  i3th  year — ccxxv. 
WALLER,  Edmund  (1605 — 1687) 

Of  English  verse — LXXII 

The  story  of  Phoebus  and  Daphne  applied — LXXIH 

To  Chloris  singing  a  song  of  her  own  composing — LXXV 

On  a  girdle — cxxvm. 
WALSH,  William  (1663—1708) 

The  despairing  lover — CCCLXX. 
WALTON,  Izaak  (1593 — 1683) 

The  angler's  wish— LXXXIH. 
WHITKHEAD,  William  (1715—1785) 

The/<?  ne  sais  guei—ccixxxrv. 
WILLIAMS,  Sir  Charles  Hanbury  (1709 — 1759) 

To  the  Earl  of  Bath— cxcix 

The  statesman — cc 

An  ode  on  Miss  Harriet  Hanbury— ccxx 

A  song  on  Miss  Harriet  Hanbury — ccxxi 

On  the  death  of  Matzel — CCCLVIH. 
WITHER,  George  ( 1 588—1667) 

On  a  stolen  kiss — xvn 

A  madrigal — xix 

Shall  I,  wasting  in  despair? — xxxvni. 

WOLCOT,  John  (1738 — 1819) 

What  is  prudence  ? — cxxxn 

To  sleep — ccnn 

To  a  kiss — CCLXXX 

Marian's  complaint — CCLXXXV 

When  Cupids  leave  the  virgin's  face  — CCLXXXIX 

To  a  fish — CCCCVHI. 
WOLFE,  Charles  (1791 — 1823) 

O,  say  not  that  my  heart  is  cold — CCCLXVII. 
WORDSWORTH,  William  (1770 — 1850) 

To  a  young  lady  who  had  been  reproached  for  taking 

long  walks  in  the  country — cccv. 
WOTTON,  Sir  Henry  (1568 — 1639) 

Upon  the  death  of  Sir  A.  Morton's  wife — CLXVII. 
WYAT,  Sir  Thomas  (1503—1542) 

The  one  he  would  love — H. 

UNKNOWN. 

A  valentine — xn 

Since  first  I  saw  your  face  I  resolved— xni 

As  at  noon  Dulcina  rested — xiv 

A  lover  of  late  was  I — xxii 

Fain  would  I,  Chloris,  ere  I  die — xxm 

The  willow  tree — xxiv 

My  love  in  her  attire  doth  show  her  wit — xxxiv 

Cherry-ripe — xxxv 

Love  not  me  for  comely  grace— i.iv 

Wert  thou  yet  fairer  in  thy  feature— LVI 

The  peremptory  lover — LVHI 


346 


INDEX  OF  WRITERS. 


To  Winifreda— cxiv 

A  man  may  live  thrice  Nestor's  life— cxv 

On  the  Marriage  Act— cxvn 

Pr'ythee,  Chloe,  not  so  fast — cxxm 

To  a  glove — cxxix 

Susan's  complaint— cxxx 

Strephon,  when  you  see  me  fly — cxxxvr 

What  is  a  woman  like  ?— cxxxvii 

Last  Sunday  at  St  James's  prayers— CXLVII 

When  Molly  smiles  beneath  her  cow — CLIV 

Robin's  complaint— CLV 

The  shepherd's  complaint — ciyi 

The  days  of  our  happiness  gliding  away — CLVII 

As  t'other  day  o'er  the  green  meadow  I  past — CLX 

Young  Colin  protests  I'm  his  joy  and  delight— CLXI 

Death  and  the  twin  sisters — CLXXI 

Wind,  gentle  evergreen,  to  form  a  shade — CLXXII 

Gaily  I  lived  as  ease  and  nature  taught — CLXXHI 

Epitaph  in  Croyland  Abbey — CLXXVI 

The  nymph  and  the  swain — CLXXXVIII 

To  any  minister  or  great  man— ceil 

On  some  encroachments  on  the  River  Thames — CCXHI 

The  constant  swain  and  virtuous  maid — ccxiv 

You  say  you  love,  and  twenty  more — ccxv 

The  courtship  and  wedding — ccxvn 

On  Lord  King's  motto— ccxvm 

My  heart  still  hovering  round  about  you — CCXLII 

Early  rising — CCXLVI 

An  expostulation — CCXLIX 

The  sages  of  old  in  prophecy  told-^ccLvn 

Says  Plato,  why  should  man  be  vain  ? — CCLVHI 

On  breaking  a  china  mug — CCLXIII 

The  country  wedding— CCLXIV 

On  a  kiss — CCLXXXH 

The  auburn  lock — CCLXXXIII 

Secret  love — CCLXXXVI 

The  white  rose — Cecil 

My  Lilla  gave  me  yestermom — cccxxvffl 

Kitty  of  Coleraine — CCCL 

The  honeymoon— CCCLVI. 


INDEX  OF   FIRST   LINES. 


PACK 

A  BAND,  a  bob-wig,  and  a  feather 59 

A  bard,  dear  muse,  unapt  to  sing     ' 277 

About  the  sweet-bag  of  a  bee 661 

A  choir  of  bright  beauties  in  spring  did  appear 57 

A  face  that  should  content  me  wondrous  well  .....  2 

A  funeral-stone,  or  verse,  I  covet  none 126 

Ah  Ben  !  say  how  or  when 180 

Ah  Chloris !  could  I  now  but  sit .44 

Ah,  do  not  drive  off  grief,  but  place  your  hand 132 

Ah  me  !  these  old  familiar  bounds  !   .        ; 307 

Ah,  the  poor  shepherd's  mournful  fate 67 

Ah,  what  avails  the  sceptered  race 224 

Ah,  what  is  love !  it  is  a  pretty  thing 5 

A  knife,  dear  girl,  cuts  love,  they  say 84 

A  knight  and  a  lady  once  met  in  a  grove 268 

All  my  past  life  is  mine  no  more 42 

All  travellers  at  first  incline        .        ....        ...  76 

All  you  that  e'er  tasted  of  Swatfal-Hall  beer    .....  186 

Alone,  across  a  foreign  plain 312 

A  lover  of  late  was  I 15 

Altho'  I  enter  not.     See  Preface. 

A  man  may  live  thrice  Nestor's  life 83 

Amaryllis  I  did  love «3 

Amongst  the  myrtles  as  I  walked •  17 

Among  trty  fancies  tell  me  this 202 

A  pretty  task,  Miss  S ,  to  ask 168 

A  ring  to  me  Cecilia  sends 212 

As  after  noon,  one  summer's  day 61 

As  at  noon  Dulcina  rested <o 

As  beautiful  Kitty  one  morning  was  tripping 246 

As  Dick  and  I .- 250 

As  Doctors  give  physic  by  way  of  prevention             ....  127 

As  down  in  the  meadows  I  chanced  to  pass       i        ....  97 

As  gilly-flowers  do  but  stay ' 

As  I  sat  at  the  cafe",  I  said  to  myself '9» 

As  I  sat  down  to  breakfast  in  state ' 

As  I  went  to  the  wake  which  is  held  on  the  green    ....  101 

Ask  me  no  more  where  Jove  bestows 

Ask  me  why  I  send  you  here 

As  lamps  burn  silent  with  unconscious  light J75 

As  Nancy  at  her  toilet  sat  ...                  67 

As  on  this  pictured  page  I  look.     See  Preface. 

Asses'  milk,  half  a  pint,  take  at  seven,  or  before      .        ...  108 


343 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


PAGE 

As  t'other  day  o'er  the  green  meadow  I  passed          ....  124 
A  street  there  is  in  Pans  famous.    See  Preface. 

A  sweet  disorder  in  the  dress 22 

As  when  a  beauteous  nymph  decays 78 

"  A  temple  to  Friendship,    said  Laura,  enchanted    ....  285 

At  length,  by  so  much  importunity  prest   .         .....  69 

A  tree  grows  in  Java  whose  pestilent  rind 196 

Away  let  nought  to  love  displeasing  .......  82 

A  woman  is  like  to, — but  stay 102 

Aye,  bear  it  hence,  thou  blessed  child 152 

Ay,  here  stands  the  poplar,  so  tall  and  so  stately       ....  294 

BEAT  on,  proud  billows ;    Boreas  blow 52 

Before  the  urchin  well  could  go .*  173 

Behold  what  homage  to  his  idol  paid. 273 

Behold  with  downcast  eyes  and  modest  glance 264 

Between  nose  and  eyes  a  strange  contest  arose 317 

Busy,  curious,  thirsty  fly 181 

CHILDREN,  keep  up  that  harmless  play 302 

Chloe,  why  wish  you  that  your  years.        ......  36 

Chloris,  yourself  you  do  excel  ......        .48 

Christmas  is  here.     See  Preface. 

Close  by  the  threshold  of  a  door  nail'd  fast        .        .        .        .        .261 

Come,  come,  my  good  shepherds,  our  flocks  we  must  shear     .        .  114 

Come  from  my  first,  ay,  come. 272 

Come,  gentle  sleep,  attend  thy  votary's  prayer 179 

Come,  listen  to  my  stoiy,  while.        .......  279 

Come,  lovely  lock  of  Julia's  hair.       .......  204 

DEAR  child  of  nature,  let  them  rail.         .        .        ,       .        •       .  218 

Dear  Chloe,  how  blubber'd  is  that  pretty  face 63 

Dear  Doctor  of  St.  Mary's 164 

Dear  is  my  little  native  vale 225 

Dear  Joseph,  five-and-twenty  years  ago. 264 

Dear  little,  pretty,  favourite  ore. 106 

Dear  Lucy,  you  know  what  my  wish  is.     See  Preface. 

Did  ever  swain  a  nymph  adore.         .        .        .        .        .        .        .121 

Distracted  with  care. 267 

Dorinda's  sparkling  wit  and  eyes 49 

Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes. 12 

FAIN  would  I,  Chloris,  ere  I  die 15 

Fair  Amoret  is  gone  astray 59 

Fair  cousin  mine  !  the  golden  days 326 

Fair  Hebe  I  left  with  a  cautious  design i6t 

Fair  Iris  I  love,  and  hourly  I  die 60 

Fair  maiden !   when  I  look  at  tbee 227 

Fair  marble  tell  to  future  days 129 

False  tho'  she  be  to  me  and  love 66 

Farewell !  all  good  wishes  go  with  him  to-day.         ....  197 

Farewell !  but  whenever  you  welcome  the  hour        ....  191 
Farewell!  farewell  to  my  mother's  own  daughter            .        .        .316 

Fill  the  goblet  again  !  for  I  never  before 195 

Fluttering  spread  thy  purple  pinions 311 

Fly  from  the  world,  O,  Bessie  to  me 220 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES.  ^g 

PACK 

For  many  a  winter,  in  Billiter  Lane a4g 

Fortune,  that,  with  malicious  joy .        !      58 

Four  Scotchmen  by  the  name  of  Adams            ...  •     « 59 

Friends,  hear  the  words  my  wandering  thoughts  would  say     .        .     130 
From  you,  lanthe,  little  troubles  pass !    212 

GAILY  I  lived  as  ease  and  nature  taught ,2o 

Gather  ye  rosebuds  while  ye  may 

Good-night  ?     Ah  !  no  ;  the  hour  is  ill       ....  )     ,24 

Good-night  to  thee,  lady,  though  many 

Go,  rose,  my  Chloe's  bosom  grace 1    216 

Go,  virgin  kid,  with  lambent  kiss q- 

Go— you  may  call  it  madness,— folly          .        .        .        .        !  !    210 

Gracefully  shy  is  yon  gazelle |    275 

Great  Earl  of  Bath,  your  reign  is  o'er        ....  ."144 

Great  sir,  as  on  each  leve"e  day j  '.136 

HAIL!  day  of  music,  day  of  love 70 

Hail,  pretty  emblem  of  my  fate 139 

Happy  the  man  whose  wish  and  care 57 

Health,  strength,  and  beauty,  who  would  not  resign.        .        .        .  132 

He  first  deceased ;  she,  for  a  little,  tried 127 

He  pass'd  through  life's  tempestuous  night 176 

Here  lies  whom  hound  did  ne'er  pursue 257 

Here  Rogers  sat,  and  here,  for  ever,  dwell 280 

Her  eyes  the  glow-worm  lend  thee    .        .        ,        .        .        .        .25 

Heroes  and  kings  !  your  distance  keep     ....'.  128 

He  that  loves  a  rosy  cheek 14 

Ho!  pretty  page,  with  the  dimpled  chin.     See  Preface. 

How  blest  has  my  time  been  ?    What  joys  have  I  known.        .        .  83 

How  happily  shelter'd  is  he  who  reposes         .        .        •        .        •  280 

How  happy  a  thing  were  a  wedding 86 

How  many  voices  gaily  sing 331 

How  now,  shepherd,  what  means  that? 16 

Hush!  in  the  canal  below-    See  Preface. 

Huzza,  Hodgson,  we  are  going 244 

I  AM  His  Highness'  dog  at  Kew '78 

I  asked  my  fair  one  happy  day. 27S 

I'd  be  a  butterfly  born  in  a  bower.      .....••  301 

I  do  confess  thou'rt  smooth  and  fair  .... 

If  all  be  true  that  I  do  think '84 

If  all  the  world  and  love  were  young          .        ....        -35 
If  htish'd  the  loud  whirlwind  that  ruffled  the  deep     . 

If  I  had  but  two  little  wings * 

I  feed  a  flame  within  which  so  torments  me * 

If  man  might  know  the  ill  he  must  undergo '74 

If  the  man  who  turnips  cries 3 '7 

If  this  fair  rose  offend  thy  sight        . 2l6 

If  to  be  absent  were  to  be 37 

If  women  could  be  fair,  and  yet  not  fond 5 

I  gaze  upon  a  city * 

I  hardly  know  one  flower  that  grows « 

I  hate  the  town,  and  all  its  ways »39 

I  held  her  hand  the  pledge  of  bliss an 

I  in  these  flowery  meads  would  be    .......  56 


35° 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


PACE 

I  know  by  the  smoke  that  so  gracefully  curl'd  .        ....  224 

I  lately  thought  no  man  alive 119 

I  lately  vow'd,  but  'twas  in  haste       .......  107 

I'll  tell  you  a  story  that's  not  in  Tom  Moore 316 

1  loved  thee,  beautiful  and  kind .  175 

I  loved  thee  once,  I'll  love  no  more    .......  8 

I'm  in  love  with  neighbour  Nelly 171 

I  'm  like  Archimedes  for  science  and  skill 150 

Immortal  Newton  never  spoke 107 

I'm  often  asked  by  plodding  souls 189 

In  a  fair  summer's  radiant  morn 105 

In  Clementina's  artless  mien 332 

I  ne'er  could  any  lustre  see 209 

In  his  last  binn  Sir  Peter  lies 19} 

In  Kbln,  a  town  of  monks  and  bones 179 

In  London  I  never  know  what  to  be  at 246 

In  matters  of  commerce  the  fault  of  the  Dutch           ....  149 

In  tatter'd  old  slippers  that  toast  at  the  bars.     See  Preface. 

In  the  days  of  my  youth  I've  been  frequently  told    ....  184 

In  the  downhill  of  life  when  I  find  I'm  declining     ....  222 

In  the  merry  month  of  May       ........  6 

In  vain  you  tell  your  parting  lover      .         .        .        .         .         .         .71 

I  play'd  with  you  'mid  cowslips  blowing 284 

I  pr'ythee  leave  this  foolish  fashion 40 

I  pr'ythee  send  me  back  my  heart     ....'..  29 

Ireland  never  was  contented 158 

I  said  to  my  heart  between  sleeping  and  waking        ....  99 

I  sent  for  Radcliffe — was  so  ill 126 

I  strove  with  none,  for  none  was  worth  my  strife      .        •        .        .  131 

I  tell  thee,  Dick,  where  I  have  been  ...               ...  30 

I  think,  whatever  mortals  crave 269 

It  is  not,  Celia,  in  your  power 45 


ENNY  kiss'd  me 25* 

uiia,  1  bring 28 


KING  CRACK  was  the  best  of  all  possible  kings        ....  150 

Know,  Celia,  (since  thou  art  so  proud) 4Q 

LAST  Sunday  at  St.  James's  prayers "° 

Laugh  on,  fair  cousins,  for  to  you 3°2 

Life,  I  know  not  what  thou  art 2 '  5 

Life  (priest  and  poet  say)  is  but  a  dream  .        .        .        .                 •  2 1 5 

Little  Ellie  sits  alone 328 

Lo  !  in  Corruption's  lumber-room 158 

Look  where  my  dear  Hamilla  smiles        _ 72 

Ix>rd  Erskine  on  woman  presuming  to  rail        .        •        .        .        .  «79 

Lord  Harry  has  written  a  novel 3'° 

Lords,  knights,  and  squires,  the  numerous  band       ....  162 

Love  in  her  sunny  eyes  does  basking  play 4' 

Love  is  a  circle  that  doth  restless  move •  «74 

Love  is  a  sickness  full  of  woes.         ....         ...  3 

Love  not  me  for  comely  grace 37 

MAN  is  for  woman  made 95 

Man's  life  is  like  unto  a  winter's  day «3° 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


35' 


Margaret's  beauteous  Grecian  arts 230 

Maria  !  I  have  every  good 226 

Mark'd  you  her  cheek  of  roseate  hue 207 

Martial,  the  things  that  do  attain 54 

Merry  Margaret.          ..' i 

Mine  be  a  cot  beside  the  hill 223 

Mine  fall,  and  yet  a  tear  of  hers         .......  219 

Moravians  their  minstrelsy  brine 230 

Mother,  I  cannot  mind  my  wheel 251 

My  boat  is  on  the  shore 194 

My  dearest  love,  since  thou  wilt  go 18 

My  flocks  feed  not.      .  4 

My  gentle  Anne,  whom  heretofore 165 

My  head  doth  ache 27 

My  heart  still  hovering  round  about  you 176 

My  Lilla  gave  me  yestermorn 229 

My  love  and  I  for  kisses  play'd 203 

My  love  in  her  attire  doth  show  her  wit 22 

My  mother  bids  me  spend  my  smiles 319 

My  muse  and  I,  ere  youth  and  spirits  fled 131 

My  pretty,  budding,  breathing  flower 166 

Myrtilia, "early  on  the  lawn 177 

My  sheep  I  neglected,  I  broke  my  sheep-hook 101 

My  temples  throb,  my  pulses  boil 311 

My  true  love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have  his 3 

NEEDY  knife-grinder  !  whither  are  you  going 148 

Ne'er  were  the  zephyrs  known  disclosing aio 

Never  believe  me  if  I  love.          • 33 

No  doubt  thy  little  bosom  beats 66 

No  morning  ever  seem'd  so  long 3'5 

None,  without  hope,  e'er  loved  the  brightest  fair     .        .        .        .  175 

Not,  Celia,  that  I  juster  am_ 45 

Now  cease  the  exulting  strain     .        . 321 

Now  gentle  sleep  hath  closed  up  those  eyes ia 

O  BE  thou  blest  with  all  that  Heaven  can  send          .        .        .        .  91 

O  Death   thy  certainty  is  such    .         ._ '3« 

Of  old  when  Scarron  his  companions  invited I 

O  fond  attempt  to  give  a  deathless  lot a 

Often  I  have  heard  it  said 2°4 

Oft  in  danger,  yet  alive      ._  

Oft  I've  implored  the  gods  in  vain * 

Oft  you  have  asked  me,  Granyille  why >4* 

Old  Islay,  to  show  his  fine  delicate  taste    ...  .        .  108 

O,  mistress  mine,  where  are  you  roaming  ?        .  ... 

Once  on  a  time,  so  runs  the  fable        ...  •  « 

Once  on  a  time,  when  sunny  May 299 

On  deck  beneath  the  awning.     See  Preface 

One  day,  Good-bye  met  How-d'ye-do * 

O,  never  talk  again  to  me * 

One  year  ago  my  path  was  green 2 

On  parents*  knees,  a  naked  new-born  child  .        .        .        .  i 

On  the  brow  of  a  hill  a  young  shepherdess  dwelt 

On  this  Tree,  if  a  nightingale  settles  and  sings ' 

O,  say  not  that  my  heart  is  cold 


352 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


O,  talk  not  to  me  of  a  name  great  in  story 22 1 

O,  that  the  chemist's  magic  art 218 

O,  thou  art  the  lad  of  my  heart,  Willy 172 

Out  upon  it,  I  have  loved 35 

PHILLIS,  for  shame!  let  us  improve 47 

Phillis,  men  say  that  ail  my  vows       .                 43 

Philosophers  pretend  to  tell 204 

Phyllida,  that  loved  to  dream     ...'.•..  64 

Pious  Belinda  goes  to  prayers 125 

Poets  may  boast,  as  safely  vain 46 

Poor  little,  pretty,  flattering  thing 131 

Pr'ythee,  Chloe,  not  so  fast qi 

Proud  word  you  never  spoke,  but  you  will  speak      ....  331 

Prudence,  Sir  William,  is  a  jewel 99 

REASON,  and  Folly,  and  Beauty  they  say  ......  298 

Resign'd  to  live,  prepar'd  to  die 33 

Riding  from  Coleraine.     See  Preface. 

SAYS  Plato,  why  should  man  be  vain 182 

Seest  thou  that  cloud  as  silver  clear 21 

See  the  chariot  at  hand  here  of  Love 13 

Send  back  my  long  stray'd  eyes  to  me 7 

Serene  and  tranquil  was  the  night 251 

Shall  I,  wasting  in  despair 24 

She  came — she  is  gone — we  have  met — 266 

She  has  beauty,  but  still  you  must  keep  your  heart  cool    .        .        .231 

Shepherd,  what's  love  ?  I  pr'ythee  tell 19 

Since  first  I  saw  your  face  I  resolved 10 

Since  truth  has  left  the  shepherd's  tongue 206 

Sleep,  Mr.  Speaker,  'tis  surely  fair                                      .  154 

Sleep,  my  sweet  girl !   and  all  the  sleep 242 

Sleep  on,  and  dream  of  Heaven  awhile 216 

Sly  Beelzebub  took  all  occasions 178 

Soft  child  of  Love,  thou  balmy  bliss 203 

So  look  the  mornings,  when  the  sun. 273 

Some  years  ago,  ere  time  and  taste 287 

Soon,  as  the  day  begins  to  waste 159 

Sooth  'twere  a  pleasant  life  to  lead 274 

Stay  while  ye  will,  or  go 42 

Stella  this  day  is  thirty-four .        •  ?6 

Strephon,  when  you  see  me  fly i°' 

Such  were  the  lively  eyes  and  rosy  hue '38 

Sure  'tis  time  to  have  resign'd •        •        .333 

Sweet  are  the  thoughts  that  savour  of  content 54 

Sweet,  be  not  proud  of  those  two  eyes 4' 

Sweet  Nea,  for  your  lovely  sake •  297 

TAKE  these  flowers,  which,  purple  waving        .        .        .        .         -211 

Tell  me  no  more  I  am  deceived 58 

Tell  me  not  of  joy,  there's  none. 25* 

Tell  me  not,  sweet,  I  am  unkind 3° 

Tell  me  not  what  too  well  I  know 328 

Tell  me,  perverse  young  year!           240 

Thanks,  my  Lord,  for  your  venison,  for  finer  or  fatter    .         .        .116 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


353 


That  out  of  sight  is  out  of  mind 3ja 

That  which  her  slender  waist  confined 96 

The  danger  is  over,  the  battle  is  past-        ......      33 

The  day  of  brightest  dawn  (day  soonest  flown !)         ....  227 

The  days  of  our  happiness  gliding  away 123 

The  Germans  in  Greek 178 

The  maid  I  loved  ne'er  thought  of  me 243 

Thee,  Mary,  with  this  ring  I  wed      .        .        .        .        .        •        .85 

The  fools  that  are  wealthy  are  sure  of  a  bride 84 

The  grateful  heart  for  all  things  blesses 242 

The  greenhouse  is  my  summer  seat  .......  256 

The  merchant,  to  secure  his  treasure 71 

Then,  behind,  all  my  hair  is  done  into  a  plat 109 

The  poor  man's  sins  are  glaring.         .......  201 

The  poplars  are  fell'd,  farewell  to  the  shade 223 

The  pride  of  every  grove  I  choose 68 

There  are  some  wishes  that  may  start 167 

There  falls  with  every  wedding  chime 230 

There  is  a  bird,  who,  by  his  coat 262 

There  is  a  garden  in  her  face      , 22 

There  is  a  river,  clear  and  fair 319 

There  is  a  sound  that's  dear  to  me 318 

There's  one  request  I  make  to  Him 34 

The  Sage  of  old  in  prophecy  told 181 

These  springs  were  maidens  once  that  loved 134 

The  silver  moon'  enamour' d  beam 133 

The  sun  was  now  withdrawn      ........      62 

The  time  I've  lost  in  wooing 241 

The  whistling  boy  that  holds  the  plough 209 

This  day,  whate'er  the  Fates  decree 79 

This  picture  placed  these  busts  between 107 

Though  British  accents  your  attention  fire 17? 

Thou  record  of  the  votive  throng •  276 

Thus  Kitty,  beautiful  and  young 65 

Thus  spoke  to  my  lady  the  knight  full  of  care 86 

Thyrsis,  a  youth  of  the  inspired  train 47 

Thy  smiles,  thy  talk,  thy  aimless  plays '68 

Time  was  when  I  was  free  as  air       .        .        .        •        .        •        •    256 

'Tis  gone,  with  its  thorns  and  its  roses 235 

'TisTate,  and  I  must  haste  away '43 

'Tis  not  her  birth,  her  friends,  nor  yet  her  treasure  .        ...      39 

'Tis  not  the  lily  brow  I  prize •     2 

'Tis  not  the  splendor  of  the  place 

'Tis  not  your  beauty,  nor  your  wit 39 

'Tis  not  your  saying  that  you  love 

'Tis  now,  since  I  sat  down  before 

'Tis  said,   but  whether  true  or  not     .  .        .        .        .     233 

To  all   you  ladies  now  on  land 

To  fix  her  'twere  a  task  as  vain      _ .     i 

To  his  young  Rose  an  old  man  said "| 

To  hug  yourself  in  perfect  ease .        .     i 

To  me  'tis  given  to  die,  to  thee  'tis  given » 

To  my  ninth  decade  I  have  totter'd  on ' 

Too  late  I  stay'd  !   forgive  the  crime a 

Too  plain,  dear  youth,  these  telltale  eyes ' 

To  thee,  fair  Freedom,  I  retire J 


354 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


PAGE 

.  72 

.  26l 

Try  not,  my  Stanhope,  'tis  in  vain 253 

'Twas  in  Heaven  pronounced,  it  was  mutter'd  in  hell.      .        .        .  272 

'Twas  on  a  lofty  vase's  side 254 

Twelve  years  ago  I  made  a  mock 304 

Twenty  years  hence  my  eyes  may  grow       .                                .  220 

Two  nymphs,  both  nearly  of  an  age  .......  232 

UNDERNEATH  a  myrtle  shade 180 

Underneath  this  sable  hearse.     ........  126 

Unless  my  senses  are  more  dull.        . 176 

VENUS,  take  my  votive  glass      .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .  177 

WANTON  droll,  whose  harmless  play 259 

Well  may  they,  Wentworth,  call  thee  young 146 

Well  met,  pretty  nymph,  says  a  jolly  young  swain.           .        .        .  134 

Well  then  I  now  do  plainly  see 55 

Wert  thou  yet  fairer  in  thy  feature 38 

What  Cato  advises  most  certainly  wise  is 183 

What  is  Prudery  ?     'Tis  a  beldam 98 

What  nymph  should  I  admire,  or  trust 62 

What's  life  but  full  of  care  and  doubt 320 

What  statesman,  what  hero,  what  king 145 

When  as  in  silks  my  Julia  goes 21 

When  Cupids  leave  the  virgin's  face 208 

Whene'er  the  cruel  hand  of  Death 185 

When'er  with  haggard  eyes  I  view 314 

When  I'm  dead,  on  my  tombstone  I  hope  they  will  say    .  .189 

When  I  tie  about  thy  wrist 96 

When  I  was  a  maid 239 

When  late  I  attempted  your  pity  to  move 

When  Love  came  first  to  earth,  the  spring 237 

When  Love  with  unconfined  wings 

When  maidens  such  as  Hester  die    ....                 .        .  2 

When  Molly  smiles  beneath  her  cow. '2' 

When  slumber  first  unclouds  my  brain      .        . 

When  the  black-letter'd  list  to  the  gods  was  presented     .        .        .238 
When  thy  beauty  appears          •        •         • .    .  ;        •        •        •        -75 

Where  the  loveliest  expression  to  features  is  join  d  .        .        .        .  i 

Whether  you  lead  the  patriot  band ' 

While  at  the  helm  of  State  you  ride  .                 ' 

While  I'm  blest  with  health  and  plenty     . 

While  on  those  lovely  looks  I  gaze     .                                                      •  ^ 

While  thou  wert  by     .         .         •         •         •         • 

While  with  labour  arduous  due  pleasure   1  mix.     . 

Who  begs  to  die  for  fear  of  human  need    . 

Whoever  pleaseth  to  enquire 

Who  is  it  that  this  dark  night   ...  '226 

Why  do  our  joys  depart 


Why  dost  thou  say  I  am  forsworn      . 

Why  fliest  thou  away  with  fear  . 

Why  need  I  say,  Louisa  dear      ....  '163 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES.  „- 

PAGB 

Why  so  pale  and  wan,  fond  lover  ?            ......  24 

Why,  why  repine,  my  pensive  friend         ....  337 

Why  write  my  name  'mid  songs  and  flowers                             \        \  275 

Wind,  gentle  evergreen,  to  form  a  shade  -....!  129 

With  an  honest  old  friend  and  a  merry  old  song        ....  183 

With  deep  affection ,92 

With  leaden  foot  time  creeps  along I2J 

With  virtue  such  as  yours  had  Kve  been  arm'd         .         .                 .  177 

Would  you  that  Delville  I  describe  ?         ......  9J 

YEARS,  years  ago, — ere  yet  my  dreams 281 

Ye  fair  married  dames,  who  so  of  ten  deplore 115 

Ye  happy  swains,  whose  hearts  are  free     ......  44 

Ye  nymphs  and  ye  swains,  from  the  groves  and  the  plains        .        .  122 

Yes,  I'm  in  love,  I  feel  it  now 205 

Yes,  I  write  verses  now  and  then 303 

You  ask  me,  dear  Nancy,  what  makes  me  presume          .         .         .  290 

You  bid  me  explain,  my  dear  angry  ma'amselle 290 

You,  Damon,  covet  to  posess 100 

You'll  come  to  our  Ball,— since  we  parted 295 

Young  Colin  protests  I'm  his  joy  and  delight            ....  125 

Young  Jessica  sat  all  the  day             235 

You  say  I  love  not,  'cause  I  do  not  play 20 

You  say  you  love,  and  twenty  more 160 

You  smiled,  you  spoke,  and  I  believed 211 

You  tell  me  your'e  promised  a  lover 291 


NOTES. 


NO. 

xni  ANOTHER  stanza  is  sometimes  added  to  this  poem ;  but  it  does 

not  appear  to  be  by  the  same  hand. 

xxv  and  xxvii.  Poems  almost  similar  to  these  are  to  be  found  in  Her- 
rick's  "  Hesperides." 

XLVI.  Suckling  is  remarkable  for  a  careless  natural  grace.  This  is 
one  of  his  best  poems,  and,  as  Leigh  Hunt  sajrs,  "  his  fancy 
is  so  full  of  gusto  as  to  border  on  imagination."  The  bride- 
groom is  said  to  have  been  Lord  Broghill,  and  the  bride  Lady 
Margaret  Howard,  daughter  of  the  Earl  of  Suffolk-  Three 
stanzas  of  this  poem  have  been  necessarily  omitted. 

LXXIX.  These  lines  have  also  been  attributed  to  Sir  Roger  L' Estrange, 
an  adherent  of  Charles  I. 

xcv.  Cowper,  the  poet,  says,  "  Every  man  conversant  with  verse- 

making  knows,  and  knows  by  painful  experience,  that  the 
familiar  style  is  of  all  styles  the  most  difficult  to  succeed  in. 
To  make  verse  speak  the  language  of  prose,  without  being 
prosaic,  to  marshal  the  words  of  it  in  such  an  order  as  they 
might  naturally  take  in  falling  from  the  lips  of  an  extemporary 
speaker,  yet  without  meanness,  harmoniously,  elegantly,  and 
without  seeming  to  displace  a  syllable  for  the  sake  of  the 
rhyme,  is  one  of  the  most  arduous  tasks  a  poet  can  undertake. 
He  that  could  accomplish  this  task  was  Prior  :  many  have 
imitated  his  excellence  in  this  particular,  but  the  best  copies 
have  fallen  short  of  the  original." 

xcvu.  Kitty  was  Lady  Katherine  Hyde,  afterwards  Duchess  of 
Queensberry.  Lady  Jenny  was  Lady  Jane  Hyde,  then  Coun- 
tess of  Essex. 

Oil.  Lady  Mary  W.  Montagu  wrote  very  smartly.     Lord   Lyt- 

telton  once  sent  her  some  highly  didactic  and  sentimental 
lines,  beginning,  "  The  councils  of  a  friend,  Belinda,  hear," 
of  which  Lady  Mary  made  the  following  concise  summary  : — 

"  Be  plain  in  dress,  and  sober  in  your  diet, 
In  short  my  deary,  kiss  me,  and  be  quiet." 


NOTES. 


357 


Her  verses  on  Sir  Robert  Walpole  are  happy,  but  they  in- 
erilably  recall  the  exquisite  couplets  of  Pope  : — 

"  Seen  him  I  have,  but  in  his  happier  hour 
Of  social  pleasure,  ill-exchang'd  for  power  ; 
Seen  him,  uncumber'd  with  the  venal  tribe, 
Smile  without  art,  and  win  without  a  bribe." 

evil.  Perhaps  this  is  the  most  humorous  piece   of  verse  in   the 

English  language,  and  yet  it  is  essentially  vers  de  societi 
One  or  two  slight  expressions  have  been  softened  down, 
both  here  and  in  other  pieces,  to  suit  the  taste  of  the  day. 
"  Whittle "  was  the  Earl  ot  Berkeley's  valet  ;  "  Dame 
Wadger"  was  the  deaf  old  housekeeper  ;  "  Lord  Colway  " 
means  Galway  ;  "  Lord  Dromedary "  means  Drogheda  ; 
"  Gary  "  was  clerk  of  the  kitchen;  "Mrs.  Dukes  was  a 
servant,  and  wife  to  one  of  the  footmen.  "  The  Chaplain  " 
refers  to  Swift  himself. 

cxiv.  Dr.  Percy  erroneously  supposed  this  to  be  a  translation  from 

the  ancient  British  language. 

cxxxi.  Miss  Lepell,  a  lady  of  beauty  and  wit,  was  maid  of  honor  to 
Queen  Caroline-  She  afterwards  married  Lord  Hervey. 

cxxxix.  This  was  occasioned  by  the  author  being  asked — after  he 
had  finished  the  Little  Castle  at  Strawberry  Hill,  and  adorned 
it  with  the  portraits  and  arms  of  his  ancestors — if  he  did  not 
design  to  entail  it  on  his  family. 

CXLII  and  CXLIII.  A  picture  of  Beau  Nash  (the  celebrated  Master  of 
the  Ceremonies  at  Bath)  once  hung  between  the  busts  of 
Newton  and  Pope  in  Wiltshire's  ballroom,  and  it  was  on 
that  juxtaposition  that  Mrs.  Brereton  wrote  her  lines.  (See 
the  "  Historic  Guide  to  Bath.") 

CXLIV.  Lord  Chesterfield  also  wrote  some  excellent  lines,  in  con- 
junction with  Lord  Bath,  on  Miss  Lepell,  who  married  Lord 
Hervey  in  1720  ;  but,  happily,  taste  and  manners  are  so  al- 
tered that  it  would  be  impossible  to  give  them. 

CXLVI.  Thomas  Moore  thought  that  these  lines  were  the  joint  pro- 
duction of  Tickell  and  Sheridan. 

CXLVIIL  Dr  Goldsmith  and  some  of  his  friends  occasionally  dined 
at  the  St.  James's  Coffee-house,  where  one  day  it  was  pro- 
posed to  write  epitaphs  on  him.  He  was  challenged  to  re- 
taliate, and  these  lines  were  the  result.  "  Our  Dean,"  Dr. 
Barnard,  Dean  of  Derry;  Edmund  Burke;  Mr.  Wm.  Burke, 
M.  P.  for  Bedwin ;  Mr.  Richard  Burke,  Collector  of 
Grenada  :  Cumberland,  the  dramatist  ;  Dr.  Douglas,  Canon 
of  Windsor  ;  Counsellor  John  Ridee,  an  Irish  barrister  ; 
Hickey,  an  eminent  attorney  :  Townshend,  M.  P.  for  Whit- 
church  ;  Dr.  Dodd,  the  popular  preacher  ;  Dr.  Kenrick 
lectured  at  the  Devil's  Tavern  ;  Macpherson,  of  "Ossian" 
celebrity  ;  Mr.  Woodfall  was  printer  of  the  Morning 
Chronicle- 

cm.  Dr.  Barnard   had  asserted,  in    Dr.  Johnson's  presence,    that 

men  did  not  improve  after  the  age  of  forty-five.     ' 


353 


ccx. 

CCXIII. 


NOTES. 

not  true,  sir,"  said  Johnson.  "  You,  who  perhaps  are  forty- 
eight,  may  still  improve,  if  you  will  try  ;  I  wish  you  would 
set  about  it.  And  I  am  afraid,"  he  added,  "  there  is  great 
room  for  it."  Johnson  afterwards  greatly  regretted  his 
rudeness  to  the  bishop,  who  took  the  insult  in  good  part, 
wrote  the  following  verses  next  day,  and  sent  them  to  Sir 
Joshua  Reynolds. 

Lord  Boringdon,  afterwards  Earl  of  Morley,  and  Lord 
Granville,  were  old  friends  of  Canning,  and  the  "  Lady 
Elizabeth  "  alluded  to  in  his  poem  was  one  of  the  daughters 
of  the  Duke  of  Marlborough,  and  sister  to  Lord  Henry 
Spencer.  She  married  Mr.  Spencer,  the  son  of  Lord  Charles 
Spencer. 

Lady  Bath  with  a  bad  temper  had  much  wit.  Lord  Bath 
said  to  her  in  one  of  her  passions,  "  Pray,  my  dear,  keep 
your  temper."  She  replied,  "  Keep  my  temper  !  I  don't 
like  it  so  well ;  I  wonder  you  should."  "  A  great  monarch  " 
was  George  III.  "  the  minister  fell  "  refers  to  Walpole. 

This  is  a  parody  (said  to  be  the  joint  production  of  Canning 
and  Frere)  of  Southey's  Sapphics — entitled  "  The  Widow." 

Mr.  Flack,  the  Dutch  Minister  in  1826,  having  made  a  pro- 
position by  which  a  considerable  advantage  would  have  ac- 
crued to  Holland,  this  political  despatch  was  actually  sent  by 
Canning  to  Sir  Charles  Bagot,  the  English  Ambassador  at 
the  Hague,  and  soon  afterwards  an  order  in  Council  was  is- 
sued to  put  into  effect  the  intention  so  announced. 

A  parody  on  part  of  Mr.  Whitbread's  speech  on  the  trial  of 
Lord  Melville,  put  into  verse  by  Mr.  Canning  at  the  time  it 
was  delivered. 

It  is  rather  difficult  to  make  a  selection  from  Thomas 
Moore ;  nearly  everything  that  he  has  written  might  be 
claimed  as  vers  de  societe,  whether  it  be  epitaph,  epigram, 
ballad,  or  sacred  song.  He  could  not  help  being  witty  and 
sparkling,  and  perhaps  a  little  artificial.  How  charmingly 
he  carols  to  his  Bessy  on  Love,  Death,  and  Eternity ! 
Moore  is  the  most  brilliant  of  all  our  squib  writers,  as  Swift 
is  the  most  powerful. 

This  song  was  composed  for  the  dinner  at  Merchant  Taylors' 
Hall,  in  celebration  of  Mr.  Pitt's  birthday  (1802).  Lord 
Spencer  was  chairman.  Mr.  Pitt  was  not  present. 

These  verses  express,  with  much  force  and  humour,  the 
feelings  of  the  British  nation  on  military  affairs  after  the 
close  of  the  long  struggle  with  France.  Five-and-twenty 
years  of  almost  incessant  fighting  had  made  people  heartily 
weary  of  soldiers  and  soldiering.  But  at  the  present  era  of 
non-intervention  the  poem  has  a  satirical  application  which 
Praed  probably  did  not  intend. 

Written  in  the  midst  of  the  Catholic  Emancipation  struggle. 
Adelphi  Terrace  was  built  by  the  brothers  Adams. 


NOTES. 


359 


ccxxvu.    "  Thy  great  kinsman,"— the  statute  o!  Pitt. 

CCLXXIII.  "  Chancellor  Van  "  refers  to  Mr.  Nicholas  Vansittart,  then 
Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer. 

CCLXXIV.  Thomas  Moore  married  Hamilton  Reynolds'  sister.  Charles 
Kemble  was  especially  admirable  in  the  characters  of  Mac- 
duff,  Cassio,  Falconbndge,  and  Romeo. 

ccxcvin.  I  believe  Mrs.  Greville  was  the  wife  of  Fulke  Greville,  that 
her  maiden  name  was  Fanny  McCartney,  and  that  she  was 
the  mother  of  the  celebrated  beauty,  Mrs.  Crewe. 

CCCLVIH  These  lines  were  addressed  to  Mr.  Stanhope  (Lord  Chester 
field),  to  whom  the  author  had  given  the  reversion  of  the  bul-~ 
finch  when  he  left  Dresden. 

CCCLXIII.  This  has  been  cut  down  to  bring  it  within  the  scope  of  the 
collection.  I  think  it  has  not  suffered  in  consequence. 

CCCLXVIII.  This  is  an  admirable  specimen  of  vers  de  societe.  Cowper  is 
a  master  of  playful  irony. 

CCCLXXIII.  This  riddle  has  been  published  as  Lord  Byron's ;  but  there 
is  no  doubt  about  its  authorship.  The  Rev.  Mr.  Harness, 
who  edited  Miss  Fanshawe's  "  Literary  Remains,"  says  he 
remembers  her  reading  it  at  the  Deepdene  in  the  summer  of 
1816,  and  the  admiration  with  which  it  was  received.  Some 
excellent  riddles  have  been  attributed  to  the  late  Lord 
Macaulay ;  but  I  have  good  reason  for  knowing  that  he  never 
wrote  a  riddle  in  his  life. 

CCCLXXXII.   "  Creeches." 

"  Plain  truth,  dear  Murray,  needs  no  flowers  of  speech, 

To  take  it  in  the  very  words  of  Creech."— A.  Pope. 
"  Yonder  Ruin  "  refers  to  Burnham  Abbey. 

CCCLXXXVII.  Thomas  L.  Peacock  was  the  son  of  a  London  merchant 
and  held  an  appointment  in  the  India  House.  He  was  an 
excellent  classic,  and  wrote  several  very  clever  novels.  There 
is  a  remarkable  freshness  about  the  best  of  his  verses. 

CCCXCHI.  The  flexibility  and  variety  of  Barbara's  rhythm  is  quite  won- 
derful. Tom  Moore,  Praed,  and  Prior  could  not  have  pro- 
duced a  more  graceful  piece  of  drollery  than  these  lines. 

cccc.  These  verses  are  among  the  happiest  of  Praed's  efforts,  and 

if  Messrs.  Smith  and  Elder  would  have  allowed  me  to  do  so, 
I  should  have  placed  them  side  by  side  with  Thackeray  s 
Bouillabaise.  Many  readers  would  prefer  Bouillabaise  ;  it 
is  more  natural  ;  but  Thackeray,  less  elegant  than  Praed,  ap- 


vers  di  societe  than  Thackeray. 
This  is  sometimes  attributed  to  Pope. 


360  NOTES. 

NO. 

ccccix  I  believe  there  is  little  doubt  but  that  this  was  written  by 
Mr.  Canning,  assisted  by  Mr.  Frere. 

ccccxix.  "  But  never  shall  be  sung."  "Go  to  the  devil  and  shake 
yourself,"  the  name  of  a  favorite  country  dance.  "  The  lone 
minuet "  was  a  celebrated  caricature  by  Bunbury.  Cecil 
refers  to  Lord  Salisbury,  then  the  Lord  Chamberlain. 

ccccxxi.  Mr.  Fitzgerald's  defect  is,  that  he  is  a  mere  copyist  of  Praed, 
and  he  exaggerated  Praed's  defects:  however,  there  are 
some  noteworthy  stanzas  by  him  scattered  through  the  maga- 
zines. It  is  said  that  Praed  assisted  Fitzerald  in  his  composi- 
tions. It  is  certain  that  those  he  published  after  Praed's 
death  are  inferior  to  his  earlier  efforts. 


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UC  SOUTHS*  n£GO*AL  155*211  «22f. 


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